Relapse, or, A Handbook for the Scientist in Love
by portmanteau-press
Summary: "I don't know which is more humiliating," Mycroft spat, looking down at Sherlock with excoriating, knowing eyes. "The fact that you're thirty-four years old when you have your first orgasm, or the fact that you're so frightened by your feelings you have to pump yourself full of cocaine and heroin just so you can forget the fact you have them."
1. Piezoelectricity

**Hello, everyone! Here we go, my first foray into the wonderful world of Johnlock. Please enjoy! (Mature rating for drug use, language, potentially triggering scenes, and eventual sex.)**

**Note: This entire story is pre-Reichenbach, and takes place between "The Hounds of Baskerville" and "The Reichenbach Fall" of Series 2.**

* * *

_"He's not like that. He doesn't feel things that way. I don't think." _

_"John, my brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"_

_"…I don't know."_

oOo

**Relapse, or, A Handbook for the Scientist in Love**

**I: Piezoelectricity**

John stepped into the front room, kicking the door shut behind him and compulsively smoothing the lapels of his jacket for what seemed the thousandth time. "Well?" He took a deep breath, holding his arms out. "What do you think? Will she be impressed?" The lump on the couch shifted slightly.

"You've put two condoms in your wallet tonight," came the slightly muffled response from beneath the heavy blankets. "You tell me." John's arms slumped to his sides.

"You know, I really hate you sometimes," seethed the doctor, annoyed and unable to keep from feeling slightly cheapened by the inference. But the lump only chuckled. "Can you at least bother to look?" urged John, stamping his foot impatiently on the floor. "Please? You know formal wear's much more your department, and I'm taking Mary to a nice restaurant tonight, _and_ a show afterwards, so I want to look the part. _Please,_ Sherlock? For me?" A pause, and then the lump shifted again, this time revealing a small sliver of face from out beneath a swath of fabric, and one bright grey eye blinking as it adjusted to the light. John stood still, watching as the eye looked him up and down.

"You look fine." The three words were delivered quickly and without emotion, and then the eye disappeared back into the sea of blankets.

John nodded, brushing off the terse response with practiced ease. In truth he'd been hoping for something a bit more helpful, but he knew his flatmate well enough to read when the man was in a mood, and Sherlock's recent downswings had been so dreadfully black John supposed he was lucky he'd gotten any response at all. Perhaps, he mused, it had something to do with the fact that Christmas was now just a week away—Sherlock hated the holidays like the plague. He'd nearly run Mrs. Hudson out of the flat when she'd bustled in one morning two weeks prior with the same armful of decorations she'd helped them set up the year before, and then, minutes later, John himself when he'd come to the poor woman's defense. What ensued was a nearly twenty minute long debate on the pros and cons of Christmas décor, around and around until John simply caved under the sheer asininity of it all, followed by the irascible (and now unbearably victorious) Sherlock pointing the long-suffering landlady out the door, armful of decorations and all. She went, but not before throwing John an apologetic glance.

"I'll just keep them downstairs for you boys in case you change your mind," she whispered to him, to which Sherlock lost no time in piping up, "We won't," and stepping forward to slam the door in her face. John bristled.

"What the hell was that, Sherlock?" he hissed, following his flatmate as the detective stormed into the kitchen. The sounds of Mrs. Hudson struggling with the armful of decorations as she descended the stairs were audible to both men, but Sherlock seemed too preoccupied to notice. He was already elbows-deep in the disturbingly makeshift chemistry lab he'd erected upon their kitchen table, holding up one bottle of chemicals after another, inspecting their contents carefully. John's question, of course, went unanswered, though the doctor swore he could hear mutterings of "Illogical," "Senseless," and "Massive waste of time" under Sherlock's breath.

"You know, you didn't have a problem with decorations last year!" John spat at him, pointing a condemning (though ultimately futile, as the man didn't even bother to look up to see it) finger in Sherlock's direction. "What's so different now?" There was genuine confusion buried in the question, but by that point Sherlock had either decided to ignore John or had tuned him out completely, for in response the detective simply readjusted his safety goggles and hunched closer over his current experiment, something involving human hair and fire and fluoroboric acid, and just the thought of what that was almost certainly doing to the kitchen sink John hadn't the mental fortitude to contemplate. Cursing lightly, the doctor threw his hands up in exasperation and then resigned to let the matter drop, for the time for discussion had clearly ended; Sherlock had gotten his way, and _that,_ as the stubborn detective always made sure, was the end of it. The pattern was nothing new, but John still found it positively maddening, and with a scowl he snatched the morning newspaper from the side table, burying his nose deep in the headlines until his anger ebbed away amidst the rolling grey soup that was Britain's daily in's and out's.

It mightn't have been so bad, John thought. After all, it was just a passing squabble, a 'little domestic' as Mrs. Hudson would say, and besides, he was a grown man and wasn't about to be done in by anything as trivial as lack of fairy lights. The problem, once again, became Sherlock, and the way his moody anger only seemed to fester as the days rolled on. John was shocked the detective's fingers hadn't worn to the bone the way he sawed away at his accursed violin night after night, and during the day, well, god help the jolly shopkeeper or inattentive pedestrian fate happened to toss into the warring Sherlock's path. Poisonous glares and some rather inappropriate and insulting deductions soon became commonplace, and John was forced to apologize so many times for his flatmate's berating strangers in the street that the words were soon falling off his tongue practically by rote. However, the afternoon Sherlock went off on a hassled mother toting a shopping bag on one arm and a wailing child on the other, revealing in one fell swoop to everyone within earshot in the busy street corner that the diet she'd been on for weeks clearly wasn't working, as her husband was currently sleeping with the family's _au pair,_ John decided that Sherlock had simply gone too far.

Now, glancing over at the small tree he'd set up near the fireplace, watching its little white lights blink on and off, the doctor's face broke into a small smile. The thing wasn't more than a couple feet tall, and tacky and cheap to boot, yet John found it oddly charming—and the fact that Sherlock had thrown a fit when he'd found it mixed in with the rest of the shopping the morning after he'd reduced that poor mother to tears only added to the appeal. The detective, true to form, had demanded John return the tree immediately, and even went so far as to attempt to bin the boxed decoration in its entirety when John refused. But John ripped the box from the detective's arms (it was all so pathetically childish but god help him if he wasn't going to stand his ground), shooting back that he was certainly owed a tree at Christmastime if Sherlock was allowed to spray paint and shoot holes in the walls whenever he got bored, and besides—and here John summoned his most authoritative captain's voice—just because Sherlock didn't understand or feel sentiment himself didn't give him the right to stomp around London ruining the holiday for everyone else. They were keeping the tree, god dammit, for once they were going to do something _John_ wanted to do, and if that pissed Sherlock off, well, Sherlock could just _deal with it._

That final quip earned John two days' worth of Sherlock's silence and petulant glares, but, thought John triumphantly, the tree survived, though forever after the detective refused to acknowledge its existence. And then, well—John's eyes darted up to the few strings of multi-colored lights tacked up around the windows. They'd been a gift from Mary, a joke, presented to him after he told her how his irritable flatmate despised the season. John knew he'd been pressing his luck in putting them up, and indeed, he half-expected Sherlock's head to fall off when the man returned home one night to find them shining away, bathing the flat in dim shades of rainbow. "Common," the detective spluttered hotly, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he stood frozen in the doorway, his face a mask of abject rage. "Juvenile." And John simply laughed and rolled his eyes and turned up the telly, leaving Sherlock to storm off to his room, slamming the door in his thunderous wake.

That had been four days ago. John wasn't sure if Sherlock had forgiven him for inundating the flat with Christmas cheer (though John and Mrs. Hudson had shared a good chuckle about it the day before), but if the detective hadn't yet he certainly wasn't going to do so anytime soon: the man had spent the majority of the day sprawled motionless on the couch beneath nearly every blanket in the flat. "Cold," he'd muttered to John that morning after emerging from his room with yawn and a scowl, whereupon he'd cranked the fireplace gas up to a level that could only be categorized as borderline pyromaniacal, gathered every piece of rectangular fabric at his disposal, and then promptly buried himself beneath them all. John, silently observing the action from behind the rim of a cup of tea, hadn't pressed for explanation. Yes, the icy gusts outside were frigid, but one didn't require a degree in psychology to infer that Sherlock's mood had very little to do with temperature. However, beyond that rudimentary insight, the doctor found himself stranded against Sherlock's usual wall of mental impenetrability; the detective's sulks were a veritable force of nature, ten times as dangerous, nowhere near as predictable, and just about as enjoyable as your average hurricane.

If Sherlock wanted to be miserable, John figured, so be it.

"There's some chicken leftover here in the fridge, Sherlock," John called out, turning into the kitchen. "Just in case you feel like eating tonight. You should, you know—you haven't at all today, and you're not on a case so you have no excuse." He opened the cupboard for a plate, then rummaged through the drawers for a clean knife and fork and placed them all carefully by the microwave. "No excuse," he muttered again, arranging them just so, and then, louder, to Sherlock: "There's clean dishes here for you to use, so do try to make an effort, all right? I'm not sure when I'll be back, but you can make yourself some tea in the morning if I'm not here—" He filled the kettle and fished a mug from the drying rack in the sink, setting the two together "—and there's oatmeal on the shelf if you feel up for it. Oh, and I think the milk might be a bit off, so check the expiration date if you want to use it, all right? Other than that, just don't blow up the flat while I'm gone, and be civil to Mrs. Hudson if she comes up—"

"John."

The doctor turned to find Sherlock standing in the kitchen doorway, inexplicably up from the sofa for the first time in hours. His body was cocooned in a heavy plaid duvet he'd dragged along with him from the couch, one corner draped atop his head and its opposite trailing loosely on the floor behind him. Frowning, John set down the bowl he'd been washing just in case Sherlock felt like breakfast in the morning. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Don't."

John blinked, confused. "Don't what?" But Sherlock didn't answer. A look of consternation flit across his face, and for the briefest second his lips pressed together as though he were struggling with his words. A moment later, though, the look vanished, and the change in expression was so subtle John wondered if he'd imagined it completely.

"Don't wear your tie like that," Sherlock said flatly.

"My tie?" John craned his neck downwards to look for errors. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

"That's a four-in-hand knot," said Sherlock, absently tossing a few stray locks of hair from his eyes. The duvet corner bobbled, then settled once again on his forehead. "If you're taking _Mary_ (he uttered the name with particular scorn) somewhere nice, and you want to _look the part_ (again, with particular scorn) you should use a Windsor Knot, or a half-Windsor at least."

"Jesus, Sherlock," John groaned, unable to keep from rolling his eyes just the tiniest amount. "You know, when I asked if I looked okay, I was more concerned with advice along the lines of whether or not my shirt and suit were matching. And anyways," he added, turning back to the sink and his scrubbing, "I haven't tied a Windsor since I was in the army. I don't even think I remember—"

"Then let me do it."

"What?"

"I'll tie it for you. Come here."

John stilled, then frowned again, casting suspicious eyes up at Sherlock. He didn't have a clue as to the cause for this spontaneous sprig of generosity, but it was the first kind thing his flatmate had offered to do for him in ages (and in the wake of their quarreling, John thought, nothing short of a miracle). And so he set the half-rinsed bowl in the sink, drying his hands on a dishrag before crossing the kitchen to Sherlock. The detective's hands immediately emerged out from the folds of the duvet as he drew near, taking John's tie up in his long fingers and gently pulling the knot loose.

"I thought you didn't wear ties," John muttered, keeping his head turned down and to the side as Sherlock straightened the silk around his neck, expertly folding the ends over and then under, tugging them this way and that. "I've never seen you wear a tie."

"Doesn't mean I don't know how to tie them," Sherlock answered quietly, his eyes focused on the finished knot as he slid it upwards and secured it at John's throat. "There," he said, giving it a final nudge. "A half-Windsor." And then, almost as an afterthought, he ran a pale finger down the length of the tie and buttoned John's jacket closed over it. John swallowed sheepishly, feeling the knot around his neck, and managed a smile. He didn't have to venture a look in the mirror to know it was perfectly executed.

"Thanks," he said, turning up to Sherlock.

Something flickered in the detective's eyes then, that same strange gleam, but once again it vanished almost before John had had time to suspect he'd seen it at all. And yet, John thought, he simply couldn't have imagined it twice in a row; no, it was something, something Sherlock was trying to tell him without words, and as their eyes lingered on one another just a beat too long John was sure he saw it again—_There!_—swimming just below the surface, but what was it, what, what, _what—_

"Your cab's here," Sherlock murmured suddenly, and no sooner had he spoken than the bell downstairs rang. As if on cue, the detective's hands retracted back into the blanket, and with a silent flourish he spun about, sweeping from the kitchen and falling back onto the couch with a put-upon sigh. John bit his lip, wondering, but the bizarre moment had passed, and with a shrug he reached for his coat on the hook by the door.

"Try to remember to eat," he said over his shoulder. "I've got my mobile if you need me. If you _need_ me, Sherlock," he added quickly. "You'll remember our conversation on the differences between needing and boredom."

"They do match, John."

The doctor paused halfway through the door, then turned around, poking his head back into the sitting room. "What was that, Sherlock?"

"Your suit and shirt," clarified the detective, propping himself up into a sitting position and peering carefully at John from his nest upon the couch. "They do match."

"Oh." A small, preening grin tugged at John's lips. "Well, thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, continuing to stare. In a way he'd told a half-truth, a lie by omission: John's outfit _did_ match, but it also looked…it looked…Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to think of the proper word, and arrived at _good._ Yes, that was it. John looked good.

It wasn't the first time Sherlock had come to this conclusion. The detective knew John didn't consider himself a very fashion-forward individual, and perhaps with good reason: Busy doctor, served overseas, spent his university nights holed up in labs and libraries with few distractions. Popular enough, social, amiable, but never posh. Confident but modest and never considered himself remarkably attractive. And yet in spite of all that, or perhaps because of it, John maintained a certain kind of awkward, nerdish charm (made all the more sincere, Sherlock mused, by the doctor's complete and total ignorance of it). After all, this was a man with a closet full of cable-knit jumpers and woolen vests, checked collared shirts and worn leather shoes, and John couldn't afford much better and didn't care to, even if it meant looking rather plain next to someone like Sherlock, who owned nothing but tailored suits and Armani oxfords and refused all lesser alternatives. But the detective also knew from firsthand experience that John could clean up nicely when he wanted, and tonight, decked out in his best suit—a fine, dark grey wool—Sherlock couldn't help but acknowledge that John cut a surprisingly dashing figure, from his crisp white shirt and patterned tie right down to his argyle socks. _Sexy,_ Sherlock thought, and the word took him by surprise, because he'd never really thought of anyone as being sexy before, even John. But that was it, better than good, and far more exact: sexy. Tonight, John Hamish Watson looked _sexy._

Sherlock suppressed a shiver.

"You look…_nice,_" he finally mumbled. The words sounded clumsy on his lips, but John, fussing with his scarf in the doorway and still smiling that little prideful smile that was far too becoming than it had any right to be on his clear, open face, didn't seem to notice.

"Thanks, Sherlock," he said softly. "That means a lot, coming from you."

Curious words, and even stranger sentiment behind them, and once again a pregnant pause bloomed between the two men, and they seemed on the cusp of breaching something very odd indeed. But, before either could break the silence, Mrs. Hudson was calling up from the ground level to tell John his cabbie was at the door, and the intrusion dissipated the moment completely. Startled back to normalcy, John blinked, then shrugged his coat on over his shoulders. "Coming, Mrs. Hudson!" he called after her, and with a last nod and wave to Sherlock (along with a final plea for him to eat something, _anything_), John disappeared down the stairs. Sherlock stared after him, deeply silent, and bizarrely affected, and long after he heard the front door slam closed the detective could have sworn he could feel the sound of its shutting reverberating in the hollowness of his own chest cavity.

For a moment the flat was quiet save the intermittent crackling of the fire at the hearth coupled with that resonant echoing, and soon those few seconds that filled the space of John's departure had stretched into minutes, quickly piling up one after the other, spilling onto the space of Sherlock's mind and multiplying upon contact until their combined load threatened to tip itself over into cavernous eternity—

And then, as though some great internal switch had been flipped, Sherlock was suddenly restless, practically _itching_ to move.

He wanted to do a million things at once. He wanted a case; he wanted to chase a criminal through the streets of London, dark alleys and dank sewers and high above on rooftops, leaping from one to the next, feeling the wind on his face and the breathless thrill of cheating death with every jump. He wanted the adrenaline of the solution—that fantastic, ephemeral moment when all the evidence aligned and crystallized into a truth he alone could decipher—he, Sherlock Holmes, and no one else. He wanted Lestrade's congratulations and bumbling thanks, Donovan's spite and Anderson's jealousy, and the reporters and the papers and all their attention he so voraciously loved to hate, and he wanted John, good old dependable John, standing off on the sidelines, waiting for him in the corner with his hands in his pockets, smiling up at him, proud. And then Sherlock twitched, heart racing, eyes shining, overcome with something new. For in that instant he also wanted to leap from the couch and call after John, or run after him, hail a cab and track him down and grab a hold of John's coat and hold him, breathing in the scent of John's skin and shampoo and the musky cologne he only wore on special occasions like tonight. Sherlock wanted to scream. He wanted to shoot holes in the walls; he wanted to smash every object in the flat to pieces. He wanted to take all of John's girlfriends by their scrawny, simpering necks and strangle them one by one, then do the same of every woman in London, in the whole of England, and then John would have no choice but to take _him_ out to dinner and a show afterwards, and wear his best suit for _him_ and put cologne on for _him…_

…and put two condoms in his wallet for _him…_

_"No!"_

The word was out from Sherlock's lips almost as immediately as the thought was in his head. Springing from the couch as though he'd been badly shocked, the detective stumbled to his feet, sending pillows and blankets flying in all directions and shaking his head in wild disbelief. He couldn't understand why—why would he even _think_ something so absolutely _disgusting?_ Impossible. No. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he'd never wanted…_that_ before, not ever. Closing his eyes, the detective stilled and drew in a deep breath, working to stabilize his racing mind. _Be rational,_ he thought._ Remember who you are. Calm down._

_Calm down._

_Calm. Down._

And then, just like that, it happened.

It happened very quickly. Much, much later, years and years and decades later, Sherlock would think that he must have somehow sensed its approach, for there was no other way to explain in that moment his set jaw, and his hands clenching the edge of the quilt he'd pulled with him, his back and shoulders tensing in anticipation as though a great storm were about to break right before his eyes.

It did break, and it happened very quickly. He did not, could not, stop it coming.

In that moment, the skeletal facts: He was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, resident of London, England, and he was exactly thirty-four years, eleven months, and eighteen days old. He had exactly two parents, deceased, exactly one brother, tragically _not_-deceased, and exactly one John Watson, his best and only friend, and until then nothing more than just that. In regards to everything that came after, the tumult of change, and the Pandora's Box of strife and charged brilliance that was unleashed and left to peter out in fits and starts from that point until his dying day, Sherlock, a man devoted to the sanctity of logic, never measured anything as relevant and as categorically true as the three simple and therefore most critical facts gained in that instant, the moment in which his life changed irrevocably and forever:

That the paradigm shift, the only one he ever underwent in the course of his life, happened, that it happened at that very moment, and that it happened very quickly.

The thought of John snapped back into Sherlock's brain.

It lit up the his neurons like ignited magnesium—John, smiling, charming, dressed in his dark fitted suit, and he was standing in the kitchen and asking Sherlock to tie his tie again, except that this time Sherlock didn't, this time Sherlock gathered the silk in his hands and pulled John into him, hard, rough, the way he'd wanted to just minutes before—

_"No!"_ Sherlock hissed, and he stumbled, dropping the quilt and reaching out a hand to steady himself against a nearby wall, pulling at his hair in distress. Where had that image come from? Why was it suddenly filling his brain, pushing all other thoughts aside? And why couldn't he make it go away? "Stop it," he murmured, his voice breathy and panicked, though the edge in it made his heart race all the faster. "Stop it, stop it, stop it." But Sherlock could feel his body betraying him even as he spoke, and his pleas dissolved into a tortured whimper as an uncomfortable flush ran through him, followed closely (to his complete dismay) by a ball of fuzzy warmth that welled in his stomach before working its way down and pooling between his legs.

"Nngh…" Sherlock's tongue rolled uselessly behind his teeth, and he found the garbled nonsense pouring from his mouth at once humiliating and frightful. Grimacing at his own incompetence, the detective pressed his forehead into the wall, trying to will the image of John away, but it only intensified and shifted in form: Now, bright morning light was pouring through the front room windows, and John was freshly showered and sitting in his favorite chair. He was reading the newspaper like always, absentmindedly humming some tone-deaf tune like always, but this time when Sherlock waltzed past the doctor reached out and grabbed his hand, casting the paper aside and pulling Sherlock into his lap before nuzzling into the small of his back with a soft, throaty growl. Panting into the wallpaper, the detective could almost feel the way John's strong soldier hands would hold him, weathered fingers slipping under his cotton shirt and running up his chest to caress his nipples lovingly, and how, if Sherlock would arch his back and position himself _just so,_ he'd be able to feel John's burgeoning erection through the seat of his trousers—

Sherlock moaned, gasping against the wall as a particularly violent sensation he didn't understand bled through his extremities. He could feel his penis pressing against his pants, begging to be touched, and it took the detective summoning every last modicum of restraint he had left to keep from plunging his hands down to his crotch, though to do what, he wasn't sure. And yet _Friction!_ his brain screamed, so powerfully that Sherlock couldn't keep from and glancing down at the tented fabric and the little spot of wetness now spreading at its peak. A strangled gasp caught deep in his throat. There was something so…so unbelievably _stimulating_ about that sight, of himself so aroused, and then, quite without meaning to and almost certainly guided by some latent instinct that only made him despise his body further, Sherlock snapped his spine forward and ground his hips against the wall with a heated cry. The pressure sent something electric zipping before his eyes, a wild tangle of pleasure and warmth, and before Sherlock knew what he was doing his body repeated the motion, rutting against the wall once more in a long, hard drag that had his entire frame tensing in primal satisfaction.

A third thrust, and Sherlock found himself sinking weak-kneed to the floor, groaning piteously and detesting the way his whole body felt hot and sticky and stifled by everything around him. He yearned desperately to open a window and hurl himself into the snowdrifts heaped on the pavement below, or, better yet, to take John's Browning and put a bullet through his head, ending this undignified torture. But he couldn't; all Sherlock could do, it seemed, was pant and writhe upon the floorboards and think of John, and the ruthless fantasy bubbled back up from the depths of his psyche and shifted again: This time, John was pinned beneath him, naked, red-faced, moaning, his legs wrapped tightly around Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock was naked too, sweat dripping from his temples as he dug his nails into the twisted flesh of John's Afghanistan scar and thrust shamelessly into him, again and again and again. They were having sex on Mycroft's desk, no, they were having sex in the sitting room at Buckingham Palace, and suddenly Mycroft was there, horrified and furious, and all Sherlock did was laugh in his brother's face and ram into John harder, making the doctor throw his head back and scream _Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock!_ because Sherlock wanted Mycroft to see, he wanted Mycroft to have perfect, incontrovertible proof that sex didn't _alarm_ him and that he wasn't a virgin, that he knew how it worked and knew how to love someone and be loved back. And then, staring his brother straight in the eye, Sherlock thrust deep into John a final time, and John screamed and came and Sherlock did too, and then they kissed, breathing each other in and wrapped up in such perfect, ferocious ecstasy that everything else fell away, Mycroft and Buckingham Palace and _everything,_ and all that was left was John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John, together—

_"John!"_

Sherlock screamed, and his back arched up off the floor as orgasm tore through his body, flooding him completely. It was wonderful, terrible, and Sherlock hated every second of it, because even as the throes of pleasure surged through him he was dreadfully cognizant of a loud _boom_ echoing through his mind's eye as every entrance to his mind palace slammed shut at once, leaving him petrified and stranded and _on the outside._ It was a severance in an instant, deep, visceral, and highly disturbing, for suddenly, for the first time in his life, Sherlock was without information: no thoughts, no reason, no weapon to bear against the sensations devouring him, and the flesh and blood fingers digging into the floorboards as the last of his ejaculate streamed into his pants mirrored metaphorical fingers as they scrabbled desperately at the bolted doors of the great mental construct. He needed to get back inside, had to, but was impossible to think, all he could do was _feel,_ and that was the most unbearable thing of all, how very _much_ he was feeling at this moment, and he was losing himself in it, surely, because a Sherlock who couldn't think wasn't Sherlock at all—

A final whimper tumbled from his lips, and then Sherlock collapsed, breathless, disoriented, and weak. Blinking, barely half-aware of his actions, he rolled to his side and curled into a tight ball, trembling uncontrollably and trying to ignore the new and unpleasant wetness in his pants.

The room spun above him. Christmas LEDs chased after incandescent lamplight, mingling with the dancing shadows cast off from the fire, and somewhere, far in the distance, Sherlock at last heard the groan of doors on massive, old-world hinges as his mind palace swung open once again. Upon dragging himself back inside, however, the detective immediately stopped short, for the cool stones beneath him now seemed somehow foreign, the vaulted arches high above and the winding stairs and mantled doors all subtly shifted in pitch, shape, and timbre. It was as though he were encountering his mind palace through Carroll's looking-glass, but try as he might Sherlock couldn't drop the shade, and slowly, as he tried door after door, tearing at an increasingly frantic pace through an endless stream of unfamiliar halls and passageways, the detective realized at last with a kind of stuttering, seizing terror that _he_ was the something different, the thing that had changed. He was the thing that no longer fit.

The paradigm shift was done.

That this was not truly an end but a mere change in direction was insight gained only in retrospect. At the time, as it was, Sherlock felt only confusion, a terrific sense of loss coupled with the grossly terrifying realization that nothing like this had ever happened to him before. To think that he, _he,_ had just…no, he didn't even want to _think_ the word, it was so appalling. It was _sick._ But it had escalated so quickly, and he'd been so powerless once it had begun! _Surely,_ thought the detective, _I'm not to blame._ And yet this thing, this _act,_ it clung to him still, _was him,_ and refused to be broken down, analyzed or understood. Sherlock swallowed thickly, gripping his arms to his chest. It seemed he'd dealt himself the ultimate blow: he'd collected an experience so entirely new and unlike anything he'd ever known that nothing in the whole of his mind palace could serve as adequate comparison, something so completely in the realm of feeling and base instinct that it defied logic and any attempt to cobble it into a measurable entity. Terrible. Unforgivable. For god's sake, he was lying crumpled on the floor in a sorry, shivering heap! _How could anyone ever do this willingly? How?_ The questions repeated _ad nauseam_ in Sherlock's head, spiteful and tinged with panic. _Arousal. Orgasm._ How could anyone ever find such a horrid loss of control enjoyable? Had…had he found it enjoyable?

_What's wrong with me?_

Sherlock's throat burned, and now it was _that_ question rolling around in his skull, growing larger and louder until the shame of it pried a heaving sob from his throat. Determined not to break down, the detective curled tighter, and suddenly felt overwhelmingly exposed—he wanted John, yes, John would know what to do; John would be able to explain to him and clean him up and set him right again, and then Sherlock would delete this entire experience, and then—the detective fidgeted, grappling for the familiar—and then he and John could have tea and watch crap telly and fight about who would do the washing up this time around and things would go back to the way they were supposed to be. To _normal._

But no, impossible, because Sherlock didn't want John to see him like this. He didn't want John to see him ever again.

_—It's his first stint in detox, and he's lying in a bed wrapped in rough, bleach-smelling sheets—_

And at that moment a sudden wave of nausea swept over Sherlock; scrabbling from the floor, the detective barely made it to the bathroom in time to vomit up the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He hadn't eaten in nearly a day and so it wasn't much more than bile, but it was enough to sear the back of his throat and force a cold sweat from his pores, and when he was finished he coughed, gagging, trying to spit what remained of the noxious acid from his mouth. _Disgusting,_ he thought, clinging weakly to the porcelain bowl. _Absolutely repellent._ And he vomited a second time.

Sherlock binned his soiled pants as soon as he regained the energy to stand. Using a towel, he next wiped his lower half clean as best he could manage, then tossed the cloth away as well. After making a mental note to burn the incriminating evidence as soon and as discretely as possible, Sherlock turned to the sink and washed his hands…then washed them again, and then a third time, and then a fourth, and as he was busy scraping nonexistent detritus out from beneath his left thumbnail a part of him frantically wondered if this was his OCD resurfacing, rearing its ugly head for the first time since adolescence, but he couldn't help it, he couldn't stop; his hands simply _weren't getting clean._

But when the detective caught his refection in the mirror, he froze.

Pallid skin glistening with a sour sheen. Mussed curls sticking unattractively to the sides of an anxious, ashen face. A t-shirt, damp, clinging to his torso and making him itch, and beneath that, nothing, save a dark dense patch and his member hanging limply between his legs. Sherlock gripped the counter, unable to tear his eyes away from the nervous wreck staring back at him through the glass. Trembling body. Weak knees. Eyes wide and bright and filled with fear.

With _fear_.

Emotion.

_Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid._ Sherlock's own voice rumbled back through the past, mocking him. _Interesting, yes? Emotions…the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment—_

_—It's his first stint in detox, and he's lying in a bed wrapped in rough, bleach-smelling sheets—_

Sherlock didn't remember striking the mirror. He must've, though, and several times, because suddenly it was shattered and the sound of breaking glass was in the detective's ears and silver shards were falling into the sink, and then there was red, red drops on white porcelain and trails of it running down his hand—he'd sliced his knuckles open on the glass, yes, that's what he'd done. And it hurt, oh god, it stung terribly, but with half the mirror missing now Sherlock couldn't see his reflection anymore, and that was a good, good thing.

Now he was free to do what he wanted, and nobody would be able to watch.

Still breathing heavily, Sherlock shut the water off. His movements were slow and stiff, and as he turned from the sink blood dripped from his fingertips onto the floor, smearing brightly beneath his leaden feet. His fingers left a lurid welt of red glistening on the plastic switch when he reached up to shut off the light.

_John. John will be upset with the mess—_

Sherlock paused in the doorway. For a moment he almost turned. For a moment he was filled with an uncharacteristically domestic impulse, a desire to fix what he'd broken: to clean and wrap his hand, to sweep the glass from the floor and sink, to mop the blood and disinfect the surfaces. Then John wouldn't be forced to do it himself when he returned. Then John wouldn't be mad. Then—and a small, obscenely joyous kernel of hope sprouted in Sherlock's chest at the very thought—then John might even be grateful; John would see Sherlock was thinking of him, trying to do something nice. For him.

But no, another, harsher part of the detective interrupted, and darkness clamped down on the fledgling mote of hope and squashed it into smoke, don't be daft; clean this up now, you great idiot, and John won't know you've done anything at all. Whatever message you're trying to send—_The message is,_ a small, barely audible voice cried out, _I'm trying_—John won't get it. It's pathetic, and you've done enough damage already. Sherlock sighed. Slowly, the desire drained away, and a kind of dull relief crept over the detective in its place, for the urge, however commendable, had felt misplaced, like a square peg jammed in a round hole. And yet there was something sickly in that specific shade of relief, something that left an unpalatable and uncomfortably familiar taste lodged in the back of his throat. The detective grunted weakly, shutting his eyes against it even as he felt it overrun his senses like thick fog. Pressing in, it mixed with the nighttime noise out on Baker Street and a low, resonant whisper that warned, very softly, _No, don't go back there, don't be that person again._ Then there was a distant siren, Sherlock's own breath rushing in his ears, coalescing together to say, _It's okay, sexual arousal is just biology, and biology is science,_ and then a motorbike tearing along pavement in a way that urged, _Don't be afraid! John is a doctor, John is your_ friend; _John would understand!_ And then, beneath it all, the heated thudding in his chest beginning to wonder, awestruck with sudden possibility (and there was that golden kernel of hope again, rising like a phoenix from the ashes), _John might even be flattered, John might even blush, John might even—_

_—might even—_

_—might even want—_

But then, in an event of cosmic timing as perfectly cinematic as it was perfectly cruel, someone's too-loud television erupted with a roar of laughter from somewhere in the building. It was just sitcom laugh track bleeding through thin walls, but it was enough to collapse Sherlock's fragile house of cards on the spot, and all the detective could think in that moment was what a colossal fool he was acting, and then another peal of laughter echoed through his ears and his heart clenched painfully and the urge to climb out of and away from his mind had never felt greater. He couldn't bear the weight of himself any longer. _No! No! No! No!_ screamed the clunking engine of a passing car, but too late—Sherlock detached, and the _No! No! No!_ was just a clunking engine once more, and in that instant Sherlock became beyond everything, everything except the very next thing he was about to do—one call, maybe two—and the small, hated object stashed beneath the loose floorboard in the back of his bedroom closet, and the way it had pulled him back into its gravitational orbit at last.

_Like a planet going round a star,_ his brain chimed stupidly, offering up the comparison in meager apology. _Like a comet, thrust out deep into space along the curve of its elliptical but always coming back, never quite able to break free._ But Sherlock refused to be mocked again, not by his own brain, and in spiteful retribution he furiously deleted everything he knew about planets and solar systems and comets and stars so many times over no astronomer alive or dead could have ever hoped to put the knowledge back.

It took just a few seconds; his face didn't even twitch with the effort and his hand still rested idly on the handle of the bathroom door. _Drip, drip, drip,_ went the thin flow of blood from his fingers to the ground. Sherlock did not clean it up. He took a jerky step forward and closed the door quietly behind him.


	2. The Leidenfrost Effect

**Enjoy Chapter II, but, before you go, I first want to say that I've always been intrigued by the conversation between John and Mycroft at the end of "A Scandal in Belgravia," specifically the bit where Mycroft reveals how Sherlock wanted to be a pirate as a child. The scene as a whole is poignant in its own right, but considering the fact that we're provided so little canon information concerning Sherlock's early life, I was curious as to why the writers chose that time to suddenly reveal such a childhood predilection. And why, of all things, a pirate? **

**The scene stuck with me long after watching the episode, making me wonder, but the longer I thought about it the more I began to think, _Yeah, okay. I can see that._ I hope you like my interpretation!**

* * *

oOo

**II: The Leidenfrost Effect **

Sherlock pulled the front door open, cringing against the blast of cold that flooded the foyer and at the sight of the nubby old man waiting for him on the stoop, his tattered trainers half buried in freshly fallen snow. "You look terrible," the detective deadpanned, quickly eyeing him up and down. But the man only shrugged his shoulders, hacking out a wheezing laugh that immediately congealed into a puff of icy mist in the thin night air.

"Now, now, Mr. 'Olmes," he warned playfully, grinning widely and showing off an incomplete set of very yellow teeth, three fewer than when Sherlock had seen him last. "That ain't a very kind way to greet your dear old Nicky, is it? And after I come all this way to see you? I don't usually make 'ouse calls, you know." Another wheezing laugh, another puff of icy breath. Sherlock's lips pressed into a thin, white line.

"Get in," he growled, stepping to the side and opening the door a bit wider, just enough to let Nicky waltz past before shutting it quickly. The man's fetid odor was an immediate presence, a practical assault on Sherlock's nostrils. "Keep quiet," he managed to bite out, blinking his eyes rapidly in an effort to keep them from watering. "The last thing I need is my landlady hearing you." Nicky bobbed his head in response, casting red-rimmed eyes about the prim hallway before turning slightly upon his heel to take it in from all angles.

"Nice place you got 'ere," he murmured, his chapped lips turning up a fractionally to form a sideways smile. A grubby index finger nipped out from beneath the cuff of his threadbare coat to brush lightly along the floral-patterned wallpaper. "Bit of an upgrade after that tumbledown bed-sit out in Montague, eh?" The dealer's eyes flicked brazenly back up to Sherlock's, as if daring the detective to be surprised he'd retained the information after so long.

Sherlock sucked in a breath, held it a moment, then exhaled a clipped command: _"Don't touch anything."_ Nicky pursed his lips, a combative gleam crossing his sunken eyes before he—very deliberately—lifted his finger from the wall. Sherlock nodded. "And leave the cap," he added, his grey eyes swiveling to freeze the dealer's hand just as it turned upwards to his head. "Let's try to keep the risk of louse infestation to a minimum." Nicky shrugged again, unoffended, and his twitchy hands settled back into his pockets like birds into their nests. For a moment the two men slid into competitive silence, staring at each other and wordlessly appraising, dealer to client. Sherlock noted a small, curving scar on Nicky's right cheek, half-hidden by stubble and grime, that hadn't been there six years ago. Yet aside from that and the three lost teeth, the man had barely changed, a remarkable feat considering Nicky's notoriety as a drugs dealer was eclipsed only by the notoriety of his chronic homelessness; he was even wearing many of the same clothes Sherlock remembered from their past encounters. The detective shifted his weight, suddenly wishing he'd answered the door in something more than his pants and overcoat. His bare toes curled uncomfortably upon the cold floorboards.

_"Enough,"_ he finally huffed, breaking the uncomfortably loud silence. "Let's just get this over with. I'm assuming you have what I asked for?" Nicky nodded, and without further ado reached inside several layers of clothing to extract two small plastic bags from some clandestine pocket.

Sherlock snatched them up at once. Squinting in the foyer's low light, he closely examined the contents of each before opening one packet and licking his finger, dipping the digit into the powdery substance and then bringing it to his mouth for a quick taste. His eyebrow quirked at the bitter flavor.

"Not bad," he murmured, unable to keep from sounding faintly surprised, and Nicky smiled, puffing his chest out in mock pride.

"Well o' course, sweet'eart," he crooned, "it's only the best for you. Boffin Mr. 'Olmes, the man too smart to fool—ain't that what all the papers say these days? 'Course," he went on, lowering his voice in conspiratorial whisper, "I knew that already, didn't I?" Sherlock threw the dealer a stormy look, but to his extreme frustration the dealer's face only split open in another flash of mangled teeth, and the detective scowled, stuffing the packets into his breast pocket and pulling out a small wad of cash.

"What do I owe you?" he breathed, more than ready for Nicky to be out of his building and as far away from Baker Street as possible. But the dealer held up his hands, shaking his head at the notes.

"Oh no, sir, first round's always on the 'ouse," he said, and this time he didn't bother checking the tease in his unctuous voice or his implication. And the words struck home; the color seemed to simultaneously flood and drain from Sherlock's face, turning the tops of his cheeks a mottled pink as a look of livid indignation crept quickly over his features. "Company policy," Nicky added, unable to resist a goading wink. "Remember?" Sherlock's glare curdled into something positively murderous.

"Then get out."

The detective's voice was nearly infrasonic, his tone deadly enough to stutter hearts. But Nicky only chuckled, turning blithely for the door. A dim red flag sprung up in the back of Sherlock's brain as the man reached for the handle, something about fingerprints and footprints and residue and wanting to keep all evidence of Nicky's visit to 221B closely under wraps, but Sherlock couldn't move; oh no, Sherlock would absolutely _explode_ if he had to move right now.

"See you soon, then, Mr. 'Olmes," Nicky chirped out, and with a lackadaisical tip of his cap he closed the front door on the detective, slipping back into the folds of frigid night.

Had Sherlock been feeling particularly generous, he might have considered offering the man a more covert exit from the building. The detective knew one himself, had had it mapped out and memorized before even moving in to Baker Street, and he knew right where to go, the exact steps needed to stay in the shadows and free from the gaze of the (almost) omnipresent CCTV cameras. Had he been feeling particularly generous, Sherlock might have considered passing said information along, coupled with a warning for Nicky to keep his eyes peeled for black cars and men in suits on his journey back down into London's seedy underbelly. Now, however, the thought of Mycroft's cronies nabbing the dealer off the street sometime in the next few hours, roughing him up in some abandoned warehouse until he finally cracked and admitted through bloodied teeth that yes, he did sell Sherlock Holmes cocaine and heroin tonight, filled the detective with black, vindictive joy.

A part of Sherlock knew it was self-defeating. For even if Mycroft was keeping tabs on the flat (and the detective knew he was), Nicky's clean escape might still be enough stave off a visit from Sherlock's own personal Grand Inquisitor. But, thought the detective heavily, Nicky had already gone, the agents were likely already on the move, and of course that meant it was only a matter of time before Mycroft knew, and, of course, that Sherlock would therefore have Mycroft to deal with come morning. The detective's face tightened as he imagined the somber meeting that now almost certainly hovered in his immediate future, a meeting filled with his brother's patronizing stares (_aggravating)_ and little disappointed sighs (_conceited)_, and with John and the way the doctor would grip his mug for support as he listened to the Holmes' slew of curt exchanges, mouth pinched in at the corners and face clouded with something that would just be unbearably, achingly _sad_—

But those were thoughts for tomorrow. Sherlock swallowed thickly and shut his eyes, pushing them away. He'd deal with Mycroft, with John, with everything else. He would.

But, god help him, he'd deal with everything tomorrow.

oOo

An hour later found Sherlock sitting motionless on the edge of his bed, cloaked his dressing robe and in darkness and clutching a small leather case in his lap. Keeping his eyes focused on the window in front of him and the small ribbon of streetlight shining in at the edges of the blinds, the detective's lips moved silently as he recited the elements of the periodic table to himself for the seventeenth time in a row. He finished—_Ununoctium, Uuo, atomic number 118, atomic weight 294, possible noble gas, no stable isotopes_—decided it wasn't working, and then switched to listing prime numbers: _2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13…_ He could go as high as he wanted, as far as he could do the math.

But Sherlock knew he was just wasting time.

When he reached 1,187, the detective stood up and brought the case into the kitchen.

Lestrade had told Sherlock to call if he'd ever felt himself on the verge of relapse. Mrs. Hudson had done the same. Even Mycroft had extended the offer (begrudgingly and strictly out of fraternal duty, Sherlock suspected, and yet, there it was). John had never known Sherlock as an addict, and while they'd never discussed his past drug use directly, the detective knew the doctor was well aware of it and would've been willing to come home and talk him down tonight. But Sherlock wasn't going to call any of them. After all, he didn't want their _help_, he didn't want their _pity_, and, most importantly, Sherlock didn't want them to make him stop. Trails of dried blood from the now clotted gashes across his knuckles mapped a miniature city on the detective's hand as it trembled, hovering over the metal swinging clasp that kept the case shut. Was this a mistake, he wondered? Was this failure? But then Sherlock's eyes flickered to the front room, and the spot on the floor where just a couple hours earlier he'd writhed and moaned and screamed John's name, ejaculating hard into his pants—

Sherlock opened the case.

In the past, opening the case had been the tipping point. In the past, if the case wasn't open, Sherlock knew he could still walk away. That's why he'd kept it stashed deep in his closet all this time, even after rehab, and then, shortly after, when he'd cleaned himself up for good. He'd never discussed the case with anyone; no one knew he still had it. It was a relic, a reminder, and for six years, two months, and thirteen days, it had been closed. Now it was open again, and the detective tipped its contents unceremoniously onto the table: a lighter, a spoon, two shrink-wrapped hypodermic needles, and a half-empty bag of syringe filters. Sherlock took a long, shuddering breath, then dropped the two packets of newly acquired drugs on top of it all.

His kit.

He fell back into the routine with ease, despite being several years out of practice. It wasn't a matter of recalling the required information from his mind palace; some things, Sherlock knew from experience, simply couldn't be stored away for future reference. Some things, Sherlock knew, etched themselves onto the backs of one's retinas and _stayed_. Pulling the electronic scale he kept on the table with the rest of his chemistry equipment close, the detective tared it with the spoon and then emptied a good portion of the cocaine into it, watching anxiously as the digital readout ticked up, up, up, to just the right amount. He reached for the heroin next, then, in a fit of clarity, paused. Perhaps not. After all, he'd only used heroin a few times in his life, and those times had been his lowest, when his addiction had been the most severe. When even the intense rush of cocaine had no longer been enough.

Sherlock frowned. The only time he'd ever overdosed had been on heroin. The event itself remained a dense fog in his memory, but afterwards, lying in a hospital bed as an IV fed fluids into a visibly abused vein, Sherlock could remember listening drowsily as a nurse explained how he'd been found in his flat, curled in his chair and completely unresponsive. Later on, the detective worked the details out of one of the responding EMTs, listening guardedly as the man grimly described the sight of Sherlock's blue lips and sallow skin and the way he'd been just inches from death upon the paramedics' arrival, the bloodied needle still dangling in his listless fingers….

_—It's his first stint in detox, and he's lying in a bed wrapped in rough, bleach-smelling sheets—_

Sherlock shook his head, clearing the memories away. He knew better this time. He'd been young and desperate and reckless then; this time, he wouldn't make such a plebeian mistake. And so the detective poured out a portion of the heroin into the spoon as well, then got up and drew a glass of water from the tap. The niggling wariness sticking at the back of his mind over the combination—perhaps the closest thing he had to a conscience—only compelled him to work faster. _Science,_ Sherlock thought, narrowing his mind to focus entirely on the steps. _This is science._

Step one: Cooking. Simple enough, Sherlock thought, and he peeled open a syringe, popping off the needle cap and using it to add a few milliliters of the water in the glass to the spoon and the little white hill of drugs. The weight of the lighter felt good in the palm of his hand when he picked it up, and there was something so vibrant and exhilarating and so very _yes_ about igniting it beneath the bowl, the sound of it and smell of butane and the small scrape of resistance of the spark wheel before it gave way beneath his thumb—

_—It's his first stint in detox, and he's lying in a bed wrapped in rough, bleach-smelling sheets—_

The memories swept up from Sherlock's subconscious as his eyes widened slightly, spellbound by the sight of the powders as they began to dissolve and melt into a homogenous solution in the licking heat of the blue-orange flame—

_—It's his first stint in detox, and he's lying in a bed wrapped in rough, bleach-smelling sheets. His doctor, who in time Sherlock will come to regard as a sneering, contemptuous twat, is standing over him, holding a bedpan as Sherlock vomits into it. He's propping Sherlock upright because the young man hasn't the strength to do so himself, and, as Sherlock is retching, jabbering on about the symptoms of withdrawal from long-term drugs dependency, ostensibly in order to enlighten and calm his patient and yet to Sherlock, who was admitted a mere twenty hours previously and who can already feel the cravings running incessantly up his track-marked arms, the narration is nothing but mocking and unnecessary and crushingly cruel._

_His body gives a final heave and then shudders involuntarily as the wave of nausea finally ebbs, leaving little in its wake but hollow misery and the stench of sick. The doctor wipes Sherlock's mouth and grips him tighter. Sherlock wishes with all his might to hurl the man to the ground. Wouldn't it be heavenly to bash his head against the bed railing and watch his brains spill across the floor? But the thought of slick, oozing grey matter mixing with the smell of blood and spinal fluid and industrial disinfectant curdles his gut, and before he can stop himself Sherlock whimpers and lurches forward into the pan again—_

Step two: Filter. Carefully, so as not to spill the now bubbling contents, Sherlock set the spoon down, then unscrewed the needle from the syringe and snapped on a filter—better to take precautions than wind up with a vein clogged with a stray granule of wax or chalk, regardless of whatever reassurance taste and Nicky's name could offer. The detective sniffed, watching with unbridled fascination as the liquid was drawn up into the little plastic cylinder, and as soon as the last drop was inside he tore off the filter and screwed the needle back in place. He could feel his pulse racing, his mind racing. His fingers twitched as he worked.

_—The Woman is staring at Sherlock with coy, half-parted lips, and John is staring uncomfortably up at the two of them from across the table. Sherlock's eyes follow a single bead of water as it drips from The Woman's damp hair and runs along the curve of her milky throat, and he feels, rather than hears, his reply, that he's never begged for mercy in his life. But this is a lie, and all three people in the room know it. The Woman believes Sherlock is flustered, and lying out of embarrassment, John, that Sherlock is confused, and lying out of pride. Both sense his hesitation and unease, and both assume that the detective's brain has faltered, ground to a screeching halt by one coquettish suggestion._

_But both The Woman and John are wrong._

_Because at that moment Sherlock's brain couldn't be racing faster, and if he seems shuttered and baffled it's only because the flat has telescoped away, and he's now standing frozen in the corner of a white room with a white bed watching as a spindly young man convulses atop his mattress and shamelessly begs his doctor for cocaine. Aghast, the detective watches in horror as the doctor shakes his head and turns away, and he watches as the man in the bed howls in protest, then switches tactics and begs for heroin. Then begs for methadone. Then clutches at the hem of the starched white coat as it brushes resolutely past him and begs for morphine, for oxycodone, for anything to make the pain stop. But he receives nothing, and then the door clicks shut and locks, trapping Sherlock alone with this other him, and then it's night, and the other Sherlock is begging for death, blubbering and screaming his throat raw in the darkness and straining against the binds they've used to strap him to the bed because the orderlies don't trust him and because he's too clever; he'd find a way to kill them or himself with his bare hands if they didn't take precautions—_

_And in the corner, and then back in the flat, Sherlock's breaths come short and shallow, and he can't turn away no matter how hard he tries, can't un-hear the pitiful screams no matter how hard he tries, and just inches away, all but forgotten, The Woman bats her eyes and purses her stupid, teasing lips—_

Step three: Tourniquet. Sherlock didn't have a proper tourniquet, but he pulled the sash loose from his dressing robe and quickly wound it around his upper arm, figuring it would work just as well. It would have to. Step four: Sterilize, and _dammit hurry up already go go go—_ Sherlock stood up, sweating slightly as he plunged his hands into the literal heaps of stuff cluttering the table in search of his collection of bottled chemicals, knocking objects left and right in haste. A stray Erlenmeyer flask tipped to the floor and shattered, and then his fractionating column, and Sherlock found he couldn't care less. Glass crunched beneath his bare feet and he could feel the soft tack of blood between his soles and the linoleum, and that was a problem; there was something unsanitary about that, surely, but he'd already spotted what he was looking for, and with a little groan of satisfaction the detective plucked the ethanol from the assortment of solvents and then used a napkin to hastily swab his inner elbow. He was rushing now, desperate for the high, and he squirmed impatiently as the clear liquid evaporated off his skin, leaving behind nothing but the cool indigo ribbon of the Median cubital vein pulsing just beneath the surface. Glorious.

_—He's sweating, sniveling, moaning in agony, with frothy saliva dribbling down his chin like a senseless invalid. But then Sherlock can hear muted noises coming down the hall, and so he musters every inch of resolve left to him and stills, eyes darting wildly in all directions as his ears strain to grasp anything beyond the confines of his little prison. The soft buzzing halts just outside his room, low voices muffled by the heavy door, and suddenly Mycroft's face sweeps by the small window above the handle and the man turns, venturing a sidelong glance into the white cell containing his younger brother._

_Mycroft has lost two pounds in the last week, and the window perfectly frames the bags under his eyes and his expression of impatience and weary disgust. Sherlock sees all of this and thrashes upon the bed in response, bearing his teeth like a rabid animal, and Mycroft's face sours at the display and glides out of view immediately. Sherlock's fists clench handfuls of bed sheet. _How dare he,_ he thinks, _how dare he,_ but Sherlock doesn't know how to finish that sentence nor what he really wanted from Mycroft in the first place, and his body contorts as a red electric flare of rage explodes within him at this realization, curling into the drug lust and despondency already ravaging his every atom and forcing his head back against his pillow as a hellish, ear-splitting scream tears itself from deep inside his chest. It's the scream of a man who has never felt weaker, more helpless, more afraid, more at the mercy of his own body, a man who has never hated anyone in his life more than he hates himself at that very instant—_

_And, alone in the hall, the doctor working the graveyard shift runs a hand through his thinning hair and thanks god he's only a year and a half till retirement. He takes a moment to tilt his head forward, listening as Sherlock Holmes struggles against his bindings, screaming his brother's name over and over and talking hysterically to an empty room, then flips a page in the patient file he's holding and with a heavy sigh ticks off the box next to '_Hallucinations/delusional behavior,'_ then checks his watch to note the time—_

Sherlock blinked, suddenly very aware of the fact that he'd stopped moving and that he was breathing far too quickly. His gaze flicked up to where he knew his mobile was sitting in the front room, then quickly to the door, and for a brief, spastic moment the detective wished for someone to call him and give him something, _anything_, to do other than this. He'd take a pop-in from Mrs. Hudson; he'd take a case from Lestrade, even if it was just a two. A one. A zero; he'd help Lestrade clean his house to find his keys, if only the inspector would ask. He'd find a girl's lost rabbit; he'd put on a deerstalker and mug for the paparazzi; he'd treat Anderson to a pint and toast the man's brilliance in front of the whole of Scotland Yard if he had to. If only it were that simple. _If only..._ Sherlock closed his eyes. If only John would walk up the stairs right now and find him. If only the doctor would return home, punch Sherlock in the face and scream at him for being so stupid, then throw the case and everything in it away and maybe punch the detective again, just for good measure.

Wouldn't that be wonderful.

But, no, because John wouldn't be home for hours and hours, John was on a _date_, and the needle was already in Sherlock's hand.

Step five: _Position the needle's bevel upwards._ The words were burned into Sherlock's retinas. _Ease the needle into the vein at a shallow angle between 10 and 35 degrees to avoid penetrating the vein entirely._ Yes, of course, he knew all of this; if he was going to do it he should just get on with it already—

_The needle should always point towards the heart so as to put the least amount of stress possible on the vein—_ Yes, yes, yes, he knew he knew he knew just do it come _ON—!_

A tiny prick. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he pulled back slightly on the plunger, and a swirl of red flooded the syringe—

He loosened the makeshift tourniquet from his arm with his teeth—

_—It's his first stint in detox, and he's lying in a bed wrapped in rough, bleach-smelling sheets—_

But, oh, too late. Sherlock pressed the plunger down.

And the world exploded into color and energy.

The power of it sizzled the his nerves, filling the backs of his eyes with liquid light and his every pore with tangible heat. Sherlock shuddered as the flood of warmth wormed its way through him, pulling a long, pleasured hiss from his throat. He was suddenly acutely aware of his body, of the undulating curve of his spine as he leant forward, of the smooth texture of plastic as he pulled the needle from his arm with a deft tug, of the small bead of red welling in the crook of his elbow as he dipped his head towards it and suckled the injection site with a low moan. He was acutely aware of _everything_. There was the charred, earthy smell of fire wafting in from the fireplace, and beneath it, barely perceptible, the cloistered odor of natural gas—_Combustion is the sequence of exothermic chemical reactions between a fuel and an oxidant accompanied by the production of heat_—There was the crunching of rubber on slick gravel as a car whizzed down Baker Street, clearly in a hurry_—The coefficient of kinetic friction between wet concrete and rubber is 0.30—_There was the rapid pulsing of his heart, spilling through his ears like the rolling crescendo of a kettledrum. The firmness of the wooden chair beneath him_—Solid oak, mid-1980s manufacture, repaired twice—_The droning hum of the refrigerator in the corner, the scratching of a mouse running inside the wall, _Muscardinus avellanarius—_

The list went on and on, a silver slipstream of knowledge gaining speed at an exponential rate, so fast that Sherlock stopped waiting for the words to catch up with the facts. Words were slow and cumbersome and unnecessary, clumsy and pathetically human; in this frenetic state he no longer wanted nor required such a crutch. Now the flashes of insight shot across his brain unencumbered by the ugly weight of explanation, and god, what a total joy it was to let that go—that torpid, perfunctory obligation to _explain_ everything, to justify and repeat and slow down and go backwards and in circles to accommodate everyone else's tiny minds when all his mind ever really wanted to do was _move on._

A life constantly confined—the price of his brilliance.

But this, what Sherlock was experiencing now, this was to simply know without imposition. This was to simply _be_. It was wild liberation and the detective had only ever found it at the end of a needle, and perhaps there was something shameful in that but he didn't care; this was what he'd craved with such intensity and for so long he'd forgotten the pain of its missing wasn't an intrinsic part of his being. This was his true addiction, what no one else was ever able to understand. Because he wasn't addicted to _cocaine_. He wasn't addicted to _heroin_. He was addicted to his mind palace blown wide open—everything for the taking and the knowing and he didn't even have to look for it, it was all right here, at his fingertips, he didn't even have to try. He was addicted to his brain running a thousand kilometers an hour, synapses firing so quickly the sheer speed of it made him giddy with bliss. He was addicted to intoxication on a ferocious scale, to power of the purest order. He was addicted to fucking freedom.

Sherlock gasped, gripping the seat of his solid oak, mid-1980s twice-repaired chair with white-knuckled hands as the almost divine catharsis washed over him in a great glittering wave, clearing away years of bitter torment in an instant. Tears of ecstatic relief spilled down his cheeks.

This. This was perfection.

And the only thing Sherlock could do as tipped his head back and stared glassy-eyed into the hanging overhead light was wonder why the hell he'd ever given this up, and why he'd ever worried, or doubted, ever, about anything. Because this was the whole universe coalesced in a millisecond into a single driving force, one white-hot thread of pure energy running straight through him, connecting him to everything all at once. Sherlock laughed at the utter beauty of it, and breathy gulps of air slithered into his lungs like gaseous quicksilver. This was what he'd wanted.

There was absolutely nothing in the world to be afraid of now.

Sherlock took a breath, flexed a hand. Time to get up. Time to move.

And in the next moment he was in the front room, violin in one hand, bow in the other, scraping out some tune that barely reached his ears but that wasn't the point; it wasn't about the sound, it was about the _feel_ of the notes on his fingertips, barreling up his arms until they rattled about in his cranium like beans in a tin. Sherlock smiled at the sensation, felt briefly he could flip it over and read off the secrets of the universe on the underside, but a beat later he was somewhere new, in the kitchen, lining up severed fingers on a cutting board in order of freshness and spinning out the life histories of their previous owners as he watched a slow drip of hydrochloric acid eat away at the rancid cuticles. And another beat, and he was in his bedroom closet, pulling coats and jackets down from hangers as he scavenged through an endless stream of pockets for something, what was it, he didn't know, a slip of paper with the address of a suspected killer, the riding crop, a bagged handful of dirt from the latest crime scene; in time they too melted away and coalesced into the skull, and he found himself in the front room, turning it over and looking for the cigarettes John had once stashed away inside.

_John._

Sherlock took a breath, flexed a hand. The world tilted briefly upon its axis, and then skull was gone, and he was kneeling by the fireplace and staring head-on at the little Christmas tree and its soft pearlescent lights.

"I hate you," he felt himself say to the tree, dull noise that barely rose above the ringing in his ears. And yet John had bought the tree; John had brought it home and set it up and fought for its place in the flat. This was something that John had touched, something that John _loved_. Sherlock reached out, gently pressing one fingertip to the nearest bulb and soaking in the heat of its tiny filament.

"I hate you," he said again. It was suddenly very important that the tree understand. "I'm jealous of you," he clarified, because, as a plastic facsimile of a plant, the tree probably needed all the help it could get in order to understand what it was the detective was trying to say. But what _was_ he trying to say? Suddenly, Sherlock wasn't so sure, and in the next moment the thought that he could possibly be envious of this cheap holiday prop seemed laughable and wildly farfetched. Because this...this wasn't really about the tree, right? Wasn't there something else…some_one_ else? Something more important he'd truly been upset about? Sherlock could feel his mind turning into a dark and unexplored place—a place from which the drugs in his bloodstream were just barely able to steer him away.

Sherlock sighed, removing his finger from the bulb. Teetering on the balls of his heels, he ran a hand through his messy curls before falling back to rest in a sitting position against the side of John's chair. The slightly musty scent of the fabric seemed to thread itself around his body in warm embrace. "Oh, John," Sherlock murmured, and then once more, little more than a low, pleading whisper: "Oh, _John._" And, still wavering on that knife's edge, his mind tipped towards that unexplored place again, then at last collided with it full force.

The panic struck Sherlock all at once. Later, the detective would liken the feeling to what he assumed it must be like to be hit by a rapidly moving vehicle: an instant of total shock and impact and breathless, adrenaline-fueled disorientation. Paranoia flooded the detective's system like a virulent disease, fanning out and transforming him until his every muscle was tensed in fear, and every noise, from his own panting to the pops and hisses of the fire to the rumblings of traffic on Baker Street, fused into a sinister chant telling him that John Watson wasn't safe, was not safe, _was not safe._ Because John _couldn't_ be safe, not tonight when he was out on his own in the city, distracted by a cloying date and without Sherlock's eyes to keep watch for kidnappers and assassins and bombs and for Moriarty, who was lurking in every suspicious face and laughing in every shadow, just biding his time, waiting to strike.

Moriarty.

Cruel, calculating Jim Moriarty. The detective could see him now, a ferocious chimera with a man's face and the body of an enormous black spider, springing from its foul web to sink gnashing fangs deep into John's abdomen. It was a powerful bite, holding firmly even as the doctor thrashed in pain and screamed Sherlock's name. And Sherlock couldn't help—the gun was cocked and in his hand but he couldn't shoot; he couldn't risk hitting John. Moriarty smiled at his hesitation—somehow the manic grin was apparent despite his fangs and the way they were plunged into John's flesh—and he said, "You have to choose, Sherlock." But because Sherlock didn't understand he didn't move, and the spider jaw clamped down a bit harder, sending a fresh stream of blood spurting from John's side and a tortured wail bursting from his lips.

"Stop it!" Sherlock shouted, and Moriarty laughed.

"You have to choose, Sherlock," he said again. "Either I kill him or you do, those are your only options. Now, be a good boy and _choose_."

Sherlock's stomach seemed to drop out of him. He did not want to make this choice, he _couldn't_, and he cast his eyes about the natatorium (because they were at the pool, of course they were at the pool) in a desperate search for something that would help. But all there was was the scent of chlorine in his nose, and the way his hands felt cold and clammy on the butt of the pistol, and John's pale, sickly face staring determinately forward as he slowly bled out onto the concrete ground. And then Moriarty laughed again, and the entire chamber echoed with his words.

"Oh, but Sherlock, he's already poisoned. See?" The spider-head shook John's limp body a bit, and the doctor gasped weakly as a new shot of venom surged through him. "See? There's no escape, not now—he's already going to die. Better to finish him off quickly, don't you think? Put him out of his misery?" But still Sherlock hesitated, and Moriarty's eyes flashed warningly. "Now, now, you know you can't keep him forever," he teased darkly, his sing-song voice matching the tempo of the _drip drip drip_ of John's blood falling to the ground. Why did that seem familiar, wondered Sherlock? Where had he heard that pattern before? The detective blinked, gasped for breath, tried and failed to steady his hands on the gun. Why couldn't he concentrate? Where was the _solution?_

"There is no solution," murmured Moriarty, and now Sherlock wasn't sure if the spider-mouth was speaking any longer, or if it was Moriarty's voice or his own or both he was hearing in his head. John, he noted frantically, had gone white as a sheet. "Really, sweetheart, I think our poor doctor's suffered long enough. Don't you? Like I said, you can't keep him forever. But you know that. You've always known that."

"No, no, no…" Sherlock breathed, and in final bout of desperation he trained the pistol at the narrow space between spider-Moriarty's eyes. But before Sherlock could pull the trigger all the lights of the natatorium shut off at once, and both John and his target were thrown into darkness. Nothing of the scene was left save the wavering blue light thrown off from the pool lights beneath the water, and even this at last faded to orange, transmuting slowly into the licking flames of the fireplace of 221B.

Sherlock blinked once, twice, and then, like a rubber band snapping back into place, the hallucination finally released its grip on reality. Mouth dry and eyes wide, the detective tore his gaze from the flames he'd been staring into and pulled himself onto unsteady feet, stumbling for his mobile he'd left sitting on the couch. But the lingering terror played havoc with his coordination, and his limbs felt rubbery and unnaturally long, capped by hands and feet grossly out of proportion with the rest of his body. It was a struggle to cross the room in such a state, a journey that at once seemed to take ages and no time at all, but then Sherlock's fingers curled around the cool plastic of the mobile and with a vertigo-inducing dive he tumbled onto the cushions of the couch.

**John.**

Sherlock typed the word automatically, then paused, unsure how to proceed. Moriarty and danger and death still swirled around him, and it seemed that the doctor's very life depended solely upon the pocket of safe space Sherlock could generate here, four letters and the way they could call John back to him, and how that was so critically important, the most important thing in Sherlock's life. And then, somehow, the adrenaline coursing through the detective's body was shunted in a new direction by that point of focus, and the overwhelming need for John to return home sharpened itself into an overwhelming need for John himself.

**John**, Sherlock typed again, blinking fast and working hard to keep his eyes focused on the tiny white screen and the letters he was attempting to pound into words. **John, please, I need you, I've done something terrible John I've made a mistake please John hurry—**

"You really think he'll come for you?"

Mycroft's voice.

Sherlock froze as panic exploded in his chest all over again, pressing out all room for air. It wasn't possible, and yet when Sherlock looked up, there he was, _Mycroft_, sitting across from him on the couch, cruel and cold, clasping his black umbrella in his hands like a weapon.

"Get off my couch," growled the detective, clutching his mobile protectively to his chest. "Go away."

Mycroft's face seemed bizarrely serpentine in the low light. "You're a fool, Sherlock," he murmured.

"You're a hallucination," Sherlock countered.

"You're deluding yourself."

"I am not."

_"You are!"_ Mycroft hissed, and somehow the distance between the two brothers evaporated in an instant, and Mycroft gripped the front of Sherlock's robe, forcing Sherlock to stare into his snarling face. "Yes you are!" Sherlock whimpered, wanting to push Mycroft away, but found his arms frozen at his sides, utterly useless. "You think John's going to come for you, little brother?" Mycroft sneered, his eyes bright and dangerous. "Well, what do you think he's doing right now? _Think_, Sherlock—what do you think he's doing right this very second?"

Sherlock's head was swimming; he could feel his heart racing in his chest, thudding hard against his ribcage. "I don't…I don't know—"

_"LIAR!"_ shouted Mycroft, and he shook Sherlock by the shirt, flinging the detective onto his back and leaning over him with a contemptuous snarl. "I know you know, Sherlock. You might be able to lie your way around everyone else in London, but you can't lie to _me._" Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "You know what he's doing." Sherlock shook his head, gasping for air, cringing as hot tears welled in his eyes. Moriarty and now this, Moriarty and now _this_—he couldn't take it, it was too much—

"Stop, Mycroft, please…"

"No, Sherlock. You know what John's doing. To Mary. Say it."

"No…"

"Oh, but can't you _imagine_ it, Sherlock?!" bellowed Mycroft, and a horrendous, beastly smile twisted his features, making him appear more snake-like than ever. "Can't you imagine how he's touching her, running his hands over her, putting himself _inside_ her?!" He laughed, high and shrieking and in a way Sherlock had never heard Mycroft laugh before, because Mycroft never laughed at anything, ever. "Surely even _you_ must be able to imagine the way it feels to be handled like that, the sounds one must make. Ha! Isn't it disgusting, little brother? Isn't it just absolutely _vile?_ He's _FUCKING_ her, Sherlock! _Her! And not you!"_

Mycroft pressed his forehead into Sherlock's, a suddenly cleft tongue nipping out from behind white, pointed teeth. "And that's what eats you alive, isn't it?" he hissed, his voice low and terrible. "_That's_ why you can't stand it when you catch him eying a woman on the street, _that's_ why you're miserable when he goes on dates, _that's_ why you're enraged by the fact that he has two condoms in his wallet—because he goes to such great lengths to sleep with women, desperately chasing after any pretty face who'll bat an eye in his direction, and here _you_ are, right under his nose, and you'd do absolutely anything to please him; you'd throw yourself on your knees and suck his cock in the _street_ if you knew how, but you _DON'T_, and you _NEVER WILL!"_

_"SHUT UP!"_

Sherlock launched himself from the sofa with a wild, animalistic scream. He wanted to kill Mycroft—he was going to claw his brother's eyes out, rip that snake-like tongue from his throat; he was going to run him through with his goddamn umbrella and watch his brother sputter and seize and choke to death on his own blood. But Mycroft was nowhere to be found, and Sherlock was swinging at nothing but air, and in his crazed desperation the detective spun about, legs tangling with one another and sending him crashing to the ground, hard, knocking the wind from his lungs.

"Nghhhh…"

Sherlock groaned, making a few clumsy efforts to push himself up from the floor. But the energy of the fit had evaporated, and the detective's body seemed to ache with exhaustion as much as with the pain of impact. So he gave up, lying motionless with the rough sound of his own breathing in his ears and the feeling the cool wood floor beneath the left half of his face. He supposed the hallucination had gone, but after what seemed like ages he heard footsteps to his left, and though Sherlock barely had the energy to turn his head, he did, and found Mycroft again, standing just a few feet away. He was wearing a different suit now, the double-breasted pinstripe one he'd worn to Father's funeral, and even though that didn't make sense because Mycroft had been just fifteen when their father had died there he was wearing it all the same, and looking just as grim and sepulchral as the afternoon he'd tossed the handful of earth upon the coffin. Sherlock's mobile lay pinned between the floor and the tip of his umbrella. The detective groped feebly for it, but Mycroft only frowned in response, pressing down on the umbrella until the screen cracked.

"Just look at you," Mycroft's spat, peering down at Sherlock with excoriating, knowing eyes. "I don't know which is more humiliating, the fact that you're thirty-four years old when you have your first orgasm, or the fact that you're so frightened by your feelings you have to pump yourself full of cocaine and heroin just so you can forget the fact you have them." He shook his unnervingly serpentine head. "But you _do_ have them, don't you, little brother? Feelings? _Urges_?" Mycroft's vertical slit pupils constricted mirthfully. "How absolutely terrifying." Sherlock ground his eyes shut, grimacing as the fresh wave of tears he'd been trying to hold back dropped painfully to the floor.

"Well," Mycroft sighed, his voice cool and hollow again, "you go ahead and send that text if you think he'll come." And with a flick of his wrist he sent Sherlock's mobile skittering across the floor towards him with the tip of his umbrella. "But do think, Sherlock, look at yourself and then think what you're asking: you're a self-professed sociopath, a relapsed addict, socially and emotionally stunted, unapologetically manipulative, selfish, irritable, awkward, egocentric, and now, it appears, sexually repressed in the extreme." He crouched low, nailing Sherlock with a focused stare. "So how on god's earth, little brother, could someone like John Hamish Watson ever _come_ for _you?"_

The double-entendre cut through Sherlock like a hot blade. He hadn't cried outright since rehab, but he cried now; with that last damning blow Mycroft's apparition had sliced open his very innermost secrets, and thick, choking sobs racked the detective's body in shameful response, consuming him entirely. He cried until he had no energy left, cried until his eyes were bloodshot, cried until he could feel his brain cloud over and grow fuzzy from overexertion. He knew he was crashing—he could feel the effects of the cocaine subsiding, leaving the heroin to wrap itself around his heart, slowing it down. His mobile was just inches from his face, and Sherlock reached for it, his fingers fumbling stupidly on the cracked screen as he tried once more to send his message to John. Had he sent it? Had it gone through? Sherlock wasn't sure; his vision was frosting over now and maybe it didn't even matter…maybe if he could just float here, wrapped in silence, he'd be okay…

…Sherlock closed his eyes, spilling himself into the way it the drug encapsulated him, and sighed. He was weightless, suspended, resting in perfect equilibrium…

And then, in the distance: "Poor Sherlock." The lilting words drifted through Sherlock's ears like a specter's wail. _"Pooooooor Sherlock…"_

With his final shred of strength Sherlock squeezed open a bleary eye, determined to meet this new devil head-on. He expected Moriarty again, or perhaps the Grim Reaper himself, but to the detective's surprise he was met instead with the face of a child, thin and pale and set with two wide grey eyes sparkling mischievously from behind a swath of dark curls. "Poor Sherlock," said the child again, and when he leant back Sherlock could see he was a young boy no more than five or six years old, sitting on his haunches and inspecting Sherlock closely as he lay sprawled upon his stomach on the floor. He was dressed in a schoolboy's uniform, with scuffed knees and muddy shoes, and on his head was a black felt tri-corner hat, and in his small white hands he clutched a plastic toy cutlass.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock mumbled, words slurring against his numb lips.

"Searching for treasure," the boy whispered excitedly, and he pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. "See?" He opened it and held it to Sherlock's face, revealing a looping landscape of marker and crayon. "I have a map."

But Sherlock could barely keep his eyes open. "You've…you've drawn that yourself," he breathed. It was the first thing he could think to say.

The boy frowned, thrusting his lower lip out in a defensive pout. "You sound like Mycroft," he huffed, stuffing the map back in his pocket. "Anyways, how do you know? You didn't even bother to look at it properly."

_I didn't need to._ Sherlock's voice seemed very far away, echoing against the boundaries of a rapidly collapsing universe. Or were the words merely the dull flutterings of his lapsing heart? _I remember that map. I remember making it._

The boy peered at Sherlock intently, biting his lip as he struggled to decide whether or not this was true. He had freckles on his nose. Sherlock almost smiled; he thought he'd deleted the fact that he'd had freckles as a child. Too much resemblance to Mycroft, who'd kept his through adulthood. "Did you ever find the treasure?" the boy finally asked, drawing his attention again.

_I need to find John._ Sherlock's breathing was so shallow he could hardly feel his chest rising and falling. There was so little air… _I need…you need to find John for me._ The boy cocked his head to the side, looking at Sherlock questioningly.

"Is John the treasure?"

_I don't know. Maybe. Yes._

The boy fidgeted, his fingers tightening nervously around the hilt of his plastic sword. "That's a dangerous voyage," he murmured, casting his eyes about the darkness surrounding them. "Uncharted territory. And what if I can't find him in time?"

Sherlock didn't respond. The boy's clear eyes were wide and full of an emotion bizarre yet excruciatingly familiar…what was it? How could it make those orbs so bright and yet so very sad? It was entrancing, and Sherlock found he almost had the name, only to lose it at the last moment as the word somehow curled, phonemes dancing from his outstretched fingers before slipping entirely from his grasp like a slick fish into a vast sea. It was enough to make the detective weep in frustration, how much he wanted that name—it seemed like the answer to an impossibly great question. And yet he couldn't weep; here the boy was before him, still waiting for a response. _You'll have to be brave,_ Sherlock finally answered.

"Will…?" The boy's whisper died on his lips. He tried again, and the words fell out in a breathy rush, wrinkling his small brow as he spoke. "Will John be upset? Because I really, really, _really_ don't want John to be mad at me. I know I made a mistake, but please, _please_ don't let John be mad at me. _Please._" His voice was incredibly small, but his eyes remained urgent, bright and earnest—twin Pole Stars shining in a tempest. And in that instant Sherlock pinned the name, recognized the emotion in them he'd been struggling to identify. _The most complicated mysteries,_ something on the edge of his mind reminded him gently, _are so often the simplest, aren't they?_ For there it was, clear as day, right in front of Sherlock as it had been all along, and he looked up at the boy hovering above him whose eyes were simply overflowing with the very desperate, very visceral, very _human_ need to be liked.

To be loved.

_I'll come with you,_ Sherlock replied. It seemed like the right thing to say. His heart was beating so very slowly now, and with each beat the world got a little smaller, a little redder, a little dimmer… _Okay? You have the map and I can navigate…we can find John if we work together, and then—_a faint, barely perceptible heartbeat_—and then neither of us has to be afraid._

The boy thought for a moment, then nodded, apparently finding these acceptable terms. "Then it's tally ho!" he giggled, clambering to his feet as he pointed the cutlass out towards an imperceptible horizon. He wiggled with childish excitement, then paused and turned hesitantly back to Sherlock, who still was still lying splayed upon the ground. "But, you'll need to take the pirate's oath before you can come along," the boy said solemnly. "All pirates have to take the pirate's oath. Do you…" His expressive eyes were suddenly pleading. "You haven't forgotten it, have you?"

But Sherlock shook his head. Some things, after all, can't be deleted; some things etch themselves onto the backs of one's retinas and stay—

The boy breathed a warm sigh of relief. "Good," he said. "Then say it with me." And he stood up proudly, squaring his shoulders and announcing to the dark unknown: "'My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a pirate, and I am bound to no law and fly no country's flag. For a pirate's loyalty lies with himself, his ship—'"

_'—and the sea alone,'_ finished Sherlock, and then he closed his eyes, his last tear the first drop of a great and rolling wave that rose up from the darkness to meet him and then, very quietly, swallowed him whole.


	3. Time's Arrow

**Aaaaand, Chapter III. I feel as though I've been working on this for ages, people. ****_Geologic _****ages. I know it's been a while since the last upload, but I do promise that I am not going to abandon/discontinue this story. It will be finished! There will be an end!**

**Lastly, thank you all so much for the lovely reviews, favorites, and follows, from the very bottom of my cold, terrible heart. It really is a joy to know that this story is being read and appreciated!**

* * *

oOo

**III. Time's Arrow**

It was 1:39 am when John's mobile went off in his jacket pocket, and the doctor had his hand buried halfway underneath the hem of Mary's black velvet dress. The tinny tri-tone was barely audible above the sound of their combined panting, but there was no mistaking the jarring vibration that accompanied the ring—felt by them both, as John currently had Mary pinned against her bedroom wall. Suppressing an irritated groan, John squeezed his already shut eyes tighter, sucking harder at the spot he was working on Mary's neck and hoping wildly that if he just focused hard enough on what was happening here, right now—his lips on Mary's pulse point, his right hand fondling a supple breast as his left skillfully inched its way closer and closer to the heady warmth between her legs—they might be able to skip over the disruption completely and continue on as if it never happened.

But Mary—_Bless her, but damn, damn, damn!_—pulled away, breaking contact with John's mouth. "Aren't you going to answer that?" she whispered hazily. And then, when John's hot breaths against her neck didn't carry an immediate response: "What if he needs you?"

Even their rather lascivious circumstances couldn't keep the nobler quarters of John's heart from deflating slightly at that. Because neither he nor Mary had even to say the name; of course it was Sherlock, who else would have the gall to call at such an hour? And because, thought John, chest constricting in a great internal cringe, it wasn't _fair_—for Christ sakes, no woman should have to compete with her boyfriend's _flatmate _for attention. It just wasn't _right_, regardless of whether or not that flatmate was the world's only consulting detective. The partner, thought John, should come first. The _romantic interest _should come first. Good god, there were rules for these kinds of things! It was basic etiquette, primary school manners, and all this to say nothing of a whole host of unwritten social codes no one else seemed to have a great deal of trouble internalizing and following—why (And here the recurring question echoed miserably through John's brain yet again) _why _was he fated to be tethered to Sherlock Holmes, the one person on the planet so brazenly oblivious to them all? The one person on earth who, without fail and almost invariably at the times of all others' greatest inconvenience, managed to outclass himself again and again in all categories of demanding, possessive, shamelessly interruptive behavior—?

"No."

"John?" Mary's voice lifted in surprise. She twisted a bit against the wall, angling her face to look at him closely as though she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly. Her eyes darted to his jacket pocket and to his face again. "But, what if—?"

"I don't care." John sidled closer, slipping a knee between Mary's thighs, parting her legs and causing her to gasp. "Whatever it is he wants, I don't care. Not tonight." Something thrilled and beautiful blossomed in Mary's face at those words, and it made John remarkably happy to see it—the recognition that she was important to him, the knowledge that he could, in fact, choose her first. Wrapping her arms about John's head, she pulled him to the pale skin of her chest, which he immediately set to lavishing with a flurry of butterfly kisses.

"Naughty boy," she teased, but there was gratitude in the way she snaked a hand between their compressed bodies and cupped John's arousal firmly in her fingers, rolling her palm slightly and using her remaining hand to cradle John's head to her chest as he moaned loudly in response. "Won't he be positively _furious_ you've abandoned him to consort with a commoner like me?" John chuckled, straightening up to look at her as a wolfish grin worked its way across his face.

"Despite all evidence to the contrary," he began, pausing to kiss Mary lightly, "I am not Sherlock Holmes' errand boy, and _you_, Mary Morstan_—_" he kissed her again, more deeply, and his roaming hand finally found purchase between her legs, sending a shiver running up her spine "—you are _not_ a commoner, believe me." And he kissed her a third time, bruisingly hard, and she gripped him tighter and in the next instant melted against him completely.

They ignored the second ring. At the third, however, Mary laughed, pushing John off her slightly. They were on the bed now, Mary divested of her dress and John of his jacket and currently working on his belt buckle. Or at least trying to, as proficiently as his jittery fingers and Sherlock's intermittent interruptions would allow. "Persistent, isn't he?" Mary chuckled, turning her face halfway into the nearest pillow but keeping her glittering eyes focused on him. John grit his teeth.

"Just—" the doctor swallowed, squaring his jaw in an attempt to preserve his dignity and feeling all the more emasculated for the effort. "Just let me turn that off." He rolled from Mary's mostly naked body, leaving her sweet warmth behind as he edged to the side of the bed and stretched out an arm for his jacket where it lay a few feet away upon the floor, fishing through the folds of fabric for the plastic of his mobile. He had no intention of reading or responding to any of the received messages, but the light of its display was painfully bright in the otherwise dim room, and as John's eyes adjusted he couldn't keep from casting a glance at the screen, and, consequently, at the first of the three texts he had received from Sherlock.

**John.**

The doctor paused, staring at the message, not knowing quite what to make of it. A single word, his own name, from Sherlock. How…odd. John frowned. For a moment his finger hovered above the screen as he debated turning the phone off, but niggling curiosity won out, and he quickly thumbed down to open the second text, which he noted had been sent closely after the first.

**John**

And that had John sitting bolt upright, eyes wide. Because regardless of mood or preoccupation, whether he was acting his most annoyingly verbose or his most icily reticent, Sherlock Holmes never, _ever_, repeated himself. But here it was: two "Johns" in a row, and the latter lacking punctuation, a feature not so much odd as it was completely baffling. John opened the third text.

He was vaguely aware of Mary shifting upon the down comforter behind him as he read, and of her soft hands settling themselves on his arms as she drew close to him and peered at the screen over his shoulder. Neither one spoke, but, thought John later, there must have been some subconscious shift in his countenance—a stiffening and straightening of his back, perhaps, or a licking of his lower lip, or a kind of stony impassiveness working its way into his furrowed brow—that gave himself away, for by his third or fourth read through of the final message Mary sat back with a wistful sigh and drew the bed sheets up around her body, which now felt uncomfortably bare.

"You should go," she murmured. John spun halfway around, glancing distractedly from the mobile screen to her face, clearly torn. His mouth worked as if he was about to say something, but Mary shook her head to stop him. "It's okay," she said, and as if to give John proof offered him a small, rueful smile. "Really."

"But…" John's voice trailed away, and his eyes fell down to the screen again to rove over the befuddling texts once more. "You know how Sherlock can be," he finally muttered, staring hard at the words as if staring hard would force them into a more sensible arrangement. "He's so dramatic—and this isn't the first time this kind of thing has happened. He's called me home from work on the pretense of emergency just so I can retrieve something for him from another room, or open a window or make him tea or some similar nonsense, and it's completely inconvenient and makes me furious but for all his brilliance there's times when he just doesn't seem to be able to grasp what constitutes an actual crisis—"

"John." Mary held her hands up to silence him, and John snapped his mouth shut, suddenly painfully aware that he was rambling, and also of the fact that making excuses for Sherlock now probably wasn't the wisest of choices. He ventured a hesitant glance up to her, but his eyes had adjusted to the light of the mobile and in her face he could make out nothing more than a smudge of pale shadow.

"Mary—"

"John," she simultaneously interrupted him.

"Look, it's probably nothing—"

"It's never _nothing_ with Sherlock—"

"But I don't have to go—"

"But you _want_ to." The finality in Mary's tone ate up any excuse John had been set to give. "You want to, John," she repeated, more quietly, and suddenly John found he had nothing left to say, and that Mary's bedroom had become incredibly claustrophobic. Without another word, he rose from the bed and collected his jacket and shoes from the floor.

Mary followed him into the front room, dropping down into a kitchen chair as he pulled his coat on over his shoulders. "Call me when you get in?" she murmured. "Let me know you made it home okay, and that he's okay." She crossed her arms across her chest, but her expression was more melancholy than hurt. John nodded mutely. She should be furious, he thought, she should be fed up and hurling crockery and insults at him in a fit loud enough to rouse the neighbors. Instead, she just looked beautiful: lingerie and sweeping brown hair and a face like an angel of perpetual suffering. It broke his heart to leave her.

"Look, I'm so sorry," he blurted, not knowing what else to say. "That is, I, well, I just wanted tonight to be…" He paused, trying to summon every inch of verbal dexterity at his command, and failing. "I just didn't want tonight to end up like this," he finished weakly, and he immediately hated himself for saying it, because if that didn't just sound pathetically awful John didn't know what did. He barely had the fortitude to look her in the face, but the masochist in him forced his eyes to meet hers.

"Do you want me to call you a cab?" was all she said.

God, that stung. It stung as John kissed Mary goodnight; it stung as he hurried down the stairs leading out of her building. It stung in spite of the cold wind that accosted him as he stepped into the street and it stung as he hunted down and hailed a cab on his own, because no, John did not want Mary to call him a cab; he did not want Mary to do one more nice thing for him tonight, or ever again, for that matter.

However, after spending a few pensive minutes watching a snowy London roll past the window, John's thoughts turned back to Sherlock, and his ire and self-loathing began to morph into something resembling worry. Frowning, setting aside the issue of Mary for the immediate time being, he pulled his phone from his pocket, examining Sherlock's texts once more.

**John.**

**John**

And lastly, the third and final message, which was now quickly causing a cold lump to solidify deep in the doctor's stomach:

**John, please, I need you, I've done something terrible John I've made a mistake please John hurry**

It read as much less innocuous now that he wasn't attempting to understand it with a hard-on and a sexy, half-naked woman panting beneath him. In fact, thought John, feeling the first pins of panic press themselves into the base of his spine, nothing about this was right. The first two texts were repetitive, the latter two were lacking punctuation, all were missing Sherlock's trademark signature, and the third…. The doctor swallowed. The third text was disjointed, pleading, _fearful_—John had received messages from Sherlock when the detective was being held at gunpoint that were far better composed, and far less emotional. No, n_othing _about this was right. He pounded out a reply.

**What's wrong? Are you okay? —JW**

Five minutes. He'd give Sherlock five minutes to respond. The doctor glanced nervously up at the cabbie, blithely absorbed in humming along to some god-awful Christmas tune pouring in over the radio, then back to his phone, hoping. But the minutes ticked by, each one shaving off a bit more of John's patience and nerve as they came and went with no answer from Sherlock. One. Two. Three. Four, and John didn't wait for the fifth. Cursing lightly, he pressed call, and held the ringing receiver to his ear.

It was six unanswered rings before he was dumped to Sherlock's voice mail. _"Hello, you've reached the voice mail of Sherlock Holmes. __If you are a potential client calling to schedule a consultation, please leave your name, contact information, and a description of your case in five sentences or fewer at the tone. Relevant facts only. Proper grammar only. Dull cases need not apply—"_

John rang off, hissing in frustration. Not pausing to acknowledge the squirming discomfort in his chest that might, just might, have been fear, he quickly scrolled through his recent contacts until he found another number, and pressed call again.

"…Hello?" The answering voice was heavy with confusion and sleep.

"Mrs. Hudson," breathed the doctor, sinking back against the leather seat with a burst of relief. "It's me, John."

"John?" There was a momentary pause, and John imagined this was Mrs. Hudson blinking herself awake, turning to read the time off her bedside clock.

"Look, I'm so sorry to call this late," he said, "but I need you to do me a favor, if you could. I need you to go upstairs and check on Sherlock for me."

"Sherlock? Why? What's wrong?"

"I…" But how to explain? "I got a text from him," said John, choosing his words carefully. "I think he might be in trouble, or at least need help." He swallowed, craning his neck to look out the window and gauge his distance from Baker Street. "I'll be home in about twenty minutes, but I was hoping you could check on him now…" John's sentence trailed off as a disturbing thought occurred to him. "Actually, I don't even know if he's home."

"Oh, he's here, all right," said Mrs. Hudson, and John could hear soft noises in the background as the landlady rose from her bed. "I've been listening to him crash about all night, shouting his head off—"

"Shouting?"

"Yes, and I almost went up there myself, but I thought that if the two of you were having another row I should just keep…should just keep out of it…" Her voice dried up as she put two and two together, and John could almost see the look of confusion on her face give way to concern as she made the connection. "But…but if you…"

"I've been out all night, Mrs. Hudson," John affirmed quietly. He felt suddenly numb, as though he'd been doused with ice water.

"I'll go check on him at once," she breathed. "Just—" a muffled thump, and John could tell she had begun to hurry. "I'll call you right back."

"Wait—!" John called after her, for at least a dozen scenarios involving armed thugs and assassins and all varieties of dangerous assailants had materialized in his mind, but Mrs. Hudson had already hung up with a _–click-_.

_"Shit_," hissed John, angrily stowing his mobile back in his coat as the cab rolled to a stop at a traffic light. There weren't many other cars on the road this late, and John fidgeted, for a brief moment considering ordering the cabbie to run the light, telling him that he'd pay double if they could make Baker Street in record time. But they'd come by a back route—and it was just his luck, thought John frantically, that he'd land himself the worst cabbie in all of London tonight of all nights—and he realized with sinking dismay that even driving at breakneck pace they were still a good fifteen minutes off.

_Shit. _

And yet, as John stared helplessly out the window at two adjoining tenements and the little alley running between them, he realized with a jolt that he knew a shortcut home from this location. He'd have to run it, abandon the cab, but if he did it was no more than a few turns—_Straight, left, left, cross the street, hard right, hop the fence (watch for the dog), two streets east and then a final left for Baker Street_—his brain supplied instantly, and John almost laughed, for he'd never in his life been so grateful for Sherlock's affinity for alleyways and side streets, and for the fact that he and the detective had chased, and _been _chased, through them so often.

"Sorry for this," he called up the cabbie, and the poor man barely had time to glance back at John from the rear-view mirror before the doctor threw open his door, propelling himself out onto the street without further warning. "Here—" hastily, John tossed every note he had in his wallet into the car and slammed the door shut, turning on his heel. Distantly, he wondered if the fare would add up to too much or too little.

"Hey!" the cabbie shouted after him, ignoring the traffic light as it signaled green. _"Hey!_ Get back here!"

Too little, then. But John didn't turn back—he'd already slipped into military mode (Bombs, gunfire and sweltering sun and, more recently, crime, deductions, different bombs, and a pair of brilliant blue-grey eyes, now potentially in danger), and everything in him narrowed and honed until there was nothing else on earth save putting one foot in front of the other, save getting home. He took off down the pavement at a sprint.

oOo

"SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK, WAKE UP!"

The noise filtered down to him in a bluish haze. Obtrusive. Unwelcome. He would have turned his nose up at it if he could, but the shadows around him acted as a tempering force, holding him still. But there was no dulling the tone: shrill cries and a burst of feathers as a freshly caught bird battered its wings against the bars of a cage. Desperate staccato screeches of a fleeing animal the moment it stumbled and the pursuing wolves bore down upon its throat. The images came to him because he hadn't the words to describe what he was hearing. He didn't, in fact, have any words at all. But then came a slow rustling, undercurrents of suspected motion, and he was just about to get truly annoyed when the shadows—thank god—drew in closer, wrapped themselves tightly around him, and then sequestered him deeper and darker until the almost-disturbance planed out against the horizon and everything went quiet and still once more.

But moments later another noise broke through. He waited expectantly for the shadows' rescue, but this time they loosened, instead of strengthened, their grip. At first he was frightened, naked-feeling and directionless without their warm barrier against whatever _this _was, this thing reaching down and trying to pry him up from the safety of deep down here. But then the voice called again—And that's a word, he thought, _voice_, he had that word now—and this time it seemed softer, more familiar. More words came to him to describe it. Deep. Masculine. Soothing. And almost a name, but not quite. But it was enough, what he had was enough, because now he was starting to change his mind: this might be a voice to come up for.

He could come to the surface for this voice.

The shadows coiled and quaked as he shook himself free from their weakening grasp. Their smooth movements belied irritation, and even though he was ignoring them now he could see at the periphery of his vision their fading tendrils as they attempted weak jabs upwards in a futile effort to recapture him.

But he was not going back, and his face turned to the surface, resolute. He wanted the voice. And so he swam, up and up and up, until there was nothing left save the voice and the great expanse of the surface and the inevitability of its breach.

oOo

Cold.

Wet.

And a hand slapping him across the face, hard.

_"WAKE UP, YOU BLOODY IDIOT!" _

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he gasped for breath, chest heaving and hands scrabbling at whatever they could find. For a moment he was convinced he was drowning, fallen overboard from a great wooden ship, yet however he twisted his nails scraped hard surfaces and suddenly they sunk into something soft and he gripped that softness for dear life, screaming, convulsing, because he couldn't see clearly and couldn't understand where he was or why, and it was only when John slapped him a second time that Sherlock realized it was John holding him, and all his frantic brain could think was _John_, _his_ John: John, here for him, John, going to save him, John, John, Johnjohnjohnjohn—

_"SHERLOCK, STOP IT!" _

And John slapped him again, and Sherlock went limp. Gradually, he became aware of breathing filling his ears, ragged and loud, his own and someone else's…someone's…

_John,_ he moaned, feeling the phantom vibrations of his voice churning in his head though there were no sounds from his lips to match them. _John. _And still, when Sherlock opened his eyes again, John was there, filling his entire field of vision like a godsend. It was all Sherlock could see, John's face, and John's lips, and they were moving, trying to say something to him, but the detective couldn't see the words, all he could see was John, perfect, _perfect_ John, grounding him to the very earth, bringing him home…

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" The barrage of sounds flooded in all at once. "Oh god, Sherlock, you son of a bitch, come back, come back to me, _please_…"

"John…I'm sorry, John…I'm sorry…I'm here…."

And at the sound of the detective's voice John gasped Sherlock's name in relief, then released his body—which promptly crumpled in on itself.

It took Sherlock a sizable moment to piece together where he was, and how, and why. Slowly he tilted his head upwards, waiting until the hazy tendrils of his vision at last threaded together into the shape of a shower head high above him, and then into the continuous stream of water spilling from the spout and onto his chest, drenching his clothes and filling the bunches of fabric with tiny pools. Hungry for further sensory input, he opened his mouth, feeling the rivulets of water run from his soaked hair onto his tongue, but he didn't want to swallow them and so he simply let them run out again, down his chin and away. What a strange, all-over feeling that caused; it started in the pit of his stomach and ran up his spine and then instinct finally kicked in and he shivered, and in the next instant realized he was cold. Freezing cold. The water was freezing cold.

Sherlock groaned, trying to move his body out from under the stream, but his limbs did little but make wet, sopping noises against the tile, weighing him down and confusing him greatly. He groped out, then up, and when the detective's hand found the soap shelf he tried to pull himself to his feet but slipped on its slick surface almost instantly, collapsing once again in a tangled heap with his face just inches from the drain.

For one terrible, consuming moment, Sherlock wondered if this was going to be the rest of his life: trapped here and freezing in his bathroom shower, helpless, dumb, watching an endless vortex of water as it swirled down, down, all the way down into the sewers of London, into the Thames, into the sea….

_…Pirates sail the seas…_

But no, for in the next moment the water was shut off, and then strong arms wrapped themselves around him, scooping his body from the frigid tile and into something dry and warm. Sherlock clutched it close instinctively, feeling his fingers work into fabric fibers and realizing it was a towel, and at the same time that these were John's arms, and that he and John were slowly moving back and forth, back and forth, together, because John was cradling him in his lap and rocking him like a child on the bathroom floor.

"John," Sherlock murmured, and this time he could hear his voice firmly on his lips, not merely in his head. "I'm okay, John. Let me go. I'm okay." But John just gripped him tighter, and only then, as Sherlock felt a fresh wave of sobs rack John's body, did the detective realize John was crying.

"You idiot," the doctor whispered hoarsely, pressing his face deep into Sherlock's sodden curls. "You _unbelievable _idiot…"

"John…no…it's okay…"

_"It's not okay!"_ screamed John, suddenly overcome, and he took Sherlock by the shoulders, roughly twisting him about so the two were face to face. "Don't you get it? You nearly overdosed, Sherlock! You could have _died!"_ He shook Sherlock to drive the point home. "What were you _thinking?_ What would I have done if I'd have come home tomorrow and found you dead, Sherlock, dead with a fucking needle stuck in your arm? _What would I have done then? Answer me!"_ But Sherlock didn't know what to say; he was too distracted by the way spittle was flying from John's mouth as he yelled, and how his eyes were red and bloodshot and overflowing with tears, and how John was still in his coat, and the tie tied with the half-Windsor, and how both were soaked from the cold spray of the shower.

"I…" But Sherlock couldn't finish the sentence; his mouth was too full of something heavy and grainy that felt uncomfortably like sand. His head rolled on his shoulders.

"Sherlock, look at me, stay with me." John clasped Sherlock's head, pressing their foreheads together. Through half-lidded eyes Sherlock could see fresh scratches criss-crossing John's face, torn skin and tiny dots of red welling up in little half-spheres—_John's blood, _he realized; he'd scratched John and made him bleed… "Sherlock," John said, and it was all the detective could do to steer his eyes back to John's, back to the blueness of John's irises and how they stood out so against the broken blood vessels surrounding them, hundreds, and Sherlock could see them, could count them all at once—

The door opened. The detective angled his head slightly at the sudden sound, just enough to take in the sight of Mrs. Hudson in her nighttime dress: spectacles, soft hair rollers and a terrycloth robe, and an expression pained enough to register even in his muddled state. Damp eyes behind her tortoiseshell-rimmed lenses—it seemed that she, too, had been crying. "Oh," she whimpered, taking in the sight of him and John upon the floor. She wrung her hands, turning her eyes up to John's and making a helpless flailing gesture at Sherlock. "John, his hands and feet, I didn't notice before—he's _bleeding_, John."

Sherlock felt as John shifted beneath him, looking him over properly for what must have been the first time. "Cuts, yes," John murmured, his voice audibly strained. He didn't seem to be talking to anyone but himself. "Multiple cuts on his hands and feet from…from...I-I don't know what they're from—"

"John, look." And because Sherlock's eyes were still resting squarely on Mrs. Hudson in the doorway, he saw as she pointed out to the doctor the broken vanity mirror and the shards of glass littering the sink, stained along the occasional edge with streaks of red. The blood on the porcelain, the blood on the floor.

The streak of blood on the light switch.

"Jesus." John's voice was terribly small.

Mrs. Hudson's hand trembled slightly on the door handle. "I'll call the paramedics," she said finally, drawing in a rickety breath and gripping the brass tighter to quell the tremor. She stood just a little taller, as if trying to physically brace herself for the journey to the phone.

"No."

All eyes fell to Sherlock.

"Sherlock," breathed John, rearranging his arms and turning the shivering detective a bit so they were facing each other again. "You need to go."

"_No_." Sherlock put more force into the word this time, and even in their haziness his eyes glinted sharply in protest.

"This isn't open for debate, Sherlock!"

"You can take care of me…"

"Are you hearing yourself?!" John snapped, his voice finally cracking from stress. "This was a near overdose, _do—you—understand?_ You need specialized care I can't give you here! You—you could still go into shock, Sherlock, or fall into a coma, and if that happened here there wouldn't be anything I could do on my own to save you in time—!"

"John…" Sherlock raised his hand, gently pressing his chilly fingers to John's lips to silence them. There wasn't so much as a trace of his usual bossy assertiveness in either his face or his tone, and the doctor hushed, taken aback by the frank vulnerability of the entreaty. "John," Sherlock murmured again. "_Please_." And John just stared down at him, looking conflicted and utterly lost. At last he turned back up to Mrs. Hudson, who was still standing hesitantly at the door.

"Water," John croaked to her. "I-I'm going to need cool water to clean the cuts, and the antiseptic wash in the first-aid kit under the kitchen sink. Erm—" he ran his eyes shakily over Sherlock's trembling body once more, gathering himself as best he could. "Bandages, hydrogen peroxide, tweezers to remove the glass…"

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath and letting the remainder of John's list of supplies wash over him in a warm wave. It was only after he heard the door close behind the landlady as she left to collect what John needed that the detective pulled himself back to reality, and to John's hand as it carefully swept a dark lock of hair from his forehead.

"You're a selfish bastard, you know that?" the doctor grumbled, glaring down at him with an expression caught somewhere between exhaustion, fury, and helpless adoration. Sherlock said nothing, merely nestled closer to the warm body holding him, splaying his white hand against John's chest and reveling in the feeling of the soft fabric of the doctor's shirt beneath his fingertips. It was a subtle, almost impulsive gesture, and all at once the aura of the room became distinctly intimate. "Sherlock," murmured John. He kept his voice purposefully level, though he was still stroking the same lock of hair at the detective's brow. Their faces were mere inches apart. "I need you to tell me what you took. I can see the mark on your arm. Tell me what was in that needle, Sherlock."

"Cocaine…" The word slipped from Sherlock's mouth effortlessly. He wanted John to have it. He wanted John to have everything of his. "Cocaine and heroin, John, together…"

"Christ, Sherlock." The detective watched as the doctor squeezed his eyes shut with a groan, slamming his head back into the glass splashguard they were both leaning against with such force it rattled in its metal runners. A few seconds of tense silence passed, and then John dug into his coat for something. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

Sherlock frowned, confused. "John…?"

"I'm sorry," John repeated, looking down at Sherlock as he said it, and at the same time pulling his mobile from his pocket. "I know you don't want to, but you need to go to hospital. You really do. You took…_shit_, I can't believe you took those two _together_, Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock…" The detective's eyes widened.

"No, John," he mumbled, shaking his head as panic flooded his system. "Please don't. You can't. Don't make me go, no, no, nonononono…." But John ignored him, quickly unlocking the screen to dial 999. "_Please_," Sherlock continued, clumsily gripping John's unresponsive face, writhing weakly against his body, trying to make the doctor understand any way he could. "Don't send me there, John," he moaned, and the back of his throat began to burn with the promise of tears. "They'll keep me and they'll tie me to the bed and they won't let me out, and you don't understand what it's _like_, John, it hurts so terribly and I won't have my violin and I won't have cases and I won't—" his voice cracked, and somehow in his twisting his face found John's "—and I won't have _you_, John, they won't let me have you anymore, and I need you so desperately—"

And before he could stop himself, before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock smashed his lips against John's, hard, so hard that he cut his lip against John's tooth. But he kept pressing, because the blood tasted good and John tasted good, and he'd never kissed anyone in his life but now he was kissing John Watson, and it was perfect, god, it was what he'd wanted for ages and ages, ever since they'd met. Sherlock felt John's body stiffen beneath him, and heard John's mobile clatter to the floor, but he only pressed into John all the harder, sucking, licking, moaning slightly, relenting only when he realized his lungs were burning for air. So the detective at last pulled away, just enough to rake in several long, ragged breaths that blew hot and humid against the doctor's frozen face. "I'll go mad without you, John," he murmured between gulps of air. "_Please._" And he leant in again, but this time John placed his hands on Sherlock's chest, holding him back.

"No."

"John?" Sherlock tried to brush John's hands away with an ungainly nudge, but the doctor only pushed back harder.

"_No, Sherlock._"

"But John—"

_"NO!"_ And with a strangled cry John thrashed, throwing Sherlock to the ground as he scrambled to his feet. Sherlock yelped in surprise, but the cry was cut short as his forehead collided with the floor, sending a flare of pain rocketing hotly through his skull. It took a couple of seconds before the ache subsided enough for him open his eyes. When he did—and once the room had stopped spinning long enough for him to regain his bearings—the detective immediately spotted John, body pressed against the opposite wall as far away from Sherlock as he could manage, chest heaving and face white and altogether looking positively stricken.

oOo

John didn't know what to say. His mind was racing at blistering speed, but his mouth just opened and closed wordlessly because there was nothing, absolutely _nothing, _that could explain Sherlock's lips upon his own just now. It seemed likelier that little green men from Mars should beam to Earth and abduct him than for Sherlock _(Sherlock!)_ to initiate such a blatantly sexual act with _anyone_, lest of all himself—but it had happened, sure enough; there was the little smudge of wetness left over on his lips for proof. John licked it away unthinkingly, then ground his nails into the wall as the weight of what he'd done began to settle upon him. What Sherlock, no, what they _both _had just done.

What in the world had they just done?

"Y-y-you, you, y-you," he spluttered at Sherlock, who was still lying sprawled upon the ground where he'd landed, face to the floor, his arms twisted up in grey towel. His hair had fallen about his face, but his eyes remained fixed on John. "Have you gone mad?" the doctor finally hissed, feeling foolish and furious now that his brain had caught up to the rest of him. "Have you gone _completely_ mad? What was that?" John made a frantic gesture to the entire room, trying to sum up the bizarre interaction without referring to it directly. "What _was _that, Sherlock!?" he pleaded, and, desperate now, sagging a bit against the wall and hoping wildly that any second the detective would leap to his feet to announce that this was all just a part of some perverse experiment: "_Please_, Sherlock, for the love of god, tell me what's going on."

"I…I…" Sherlock's voice was rough and muted against the tile floor. For a moment he wrestled with the towel, trying unsuccessfully to free his arms. "I didn't…" he mumbled slowly, and John found himself leaning in closer to make out what he was saying. "I don't…John, I can't—"

But at that very second the door opened again and Mrs. Hudson swept inside, bearing in her arms the load of supplies John had requested. "I think this is all of it, John—_oh!_" She drew back slightly, startled to find Sherlock strewn upon the ground and John at the far wall. "What happened?" she asked breathlessly, turning her distressed face to the doctor. "John, is he alright? What's going on?"

"It's fine," John bit out, forcing himself to push his body from the wall and instantly missing its support. "Just…" he ran his hands through his hair, trying to come to grips with a situation that at every turn seemed to be spinning more ferociously out of control. "Just bring those things to his room, will you? We need to get him in bed." Mrs. Hudson cast them both a worried look but then nodded, backing out of the doorway and then heading down the corridor to Sherlock's room.

Alone with the detective once more, John knelt down, forcing his brain to focus solely on the task at hand instead of the inexplicable kiss—and the way Sherlock's eyes seemed to now be following him with an unnerving depth. Carefully, he untangled Sherlock's limbs from the towel and coaxed him into a sitting position. "Put your arms around my neck," he instructed, and Sherlock weakly complied, and, after retrieving his mobile from the floor, John hoisted the detective into his arms and turned them out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

"Dizzy…" Sherlock murmured, pressing his face into John's chest.

"Keep your eyes closed," John answered tightly.

"I…I don't want to go to hospital, John…"

"I'm not taking you to the bleeding hospital, Sherlock!" the doctor hissed in exasperation. "I'm just taking you to bed!" And, in spite of everything, the words caused John's ears to turn slightly pink. _Damn_. "To your _own _bed," he clarified quickly. "See?"

For they had just stepped into Sherlock's room, where Mrs. Hudson had deposited all the gathered medical supplies on the nearest nightstand and just finished turning down the corner of Sherlock's Egyptian cotton sheets. "A couple of towels, if you could," John said to her, and she darted out of the room at once. When she returned, he had her lay them out along the length of the bed so he could deposit Sherlock upon them without drenching the bedding. "We've got to get these clothes off him," he whispered next, starting to work Sherlock's shirt up and off his torso. "We've waited far too long already and the cold isn't doing him any favors."

It wound up a rather complicated task, seeing as Sherlock (despite being at least partially lucid throughout the ordeal) was unable to offer much in terms of holding his body upright. John was glad for the extra pair of hands as he and Mrs. Hudson worked together to strip Sherlock one article of sopping wet clothing at a time, then rub the bare portion of body down before re-clothing it in fresh pajamas retrieved from the detective's wardrobe. They made a good team, working silently in spite of the occasional groan or gasp from Sherlock as his body was jostled. Still, when Mrs. Hudson glanced demurely aside as the detective's pants came down, the doctor couldn't stifle a bitter chuckle.

"He went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet, Mrs. Hudson," he muttered. "I don't think he'll mind."

"All the same, John," she quipped back, her tone just barely admonishing. She finished tying the drawstring around Sherlock's flannel trousers, then stood back as John shifted Sherlock onto his side and pulled the comforter over him, angling it slightly to steer clear of the detective's bloodied feet.

"I suppose I'll need to clean and bandage those now," muttered John, nodding to the wounds. He took a half step towards the supplies before pausing to glance back at Mrs. Hudson, who he saw had gone curiously still, gripping her elbows and staring down at Sherlock with a strangely closed expression. Sighing, John reached out to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, only to retract it in surprise when she suddenly spun out of his reach and marched quickly for the door without so much as a single word.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John called after her. But she'd already thrown Sherlock's door wide open, stamping down the hallway as quickly as her slippered feet could carry her. Casting a hurried glance after Sherlock, John stumbled in pursuit, managing to catch her by the arm just before she made it to the kitchen.

"Let me go!" she cried, and made a wild attempt to free herself, but John knew emotional trauma when he saw it and simply pulled her closer, shushing her and wrapping his arms tightly around her until her struggling stopped and she slumped against his chest with a whimper. "Oh John," she moaned, and there was a quiver in her voice that suggested tears were on their way. "Oh John, he gave me such a _fright_."

"Ssh, it's all right," John murmured, as soothingly as his own rattled state could manage. "He's going to be all right now, Mrs. Hudson."

"I-I didn't know," she stammered. "When you called me I thought I was going to come up here and find him at another of those terrible experiments; he…he does talk to himself even when you're out, you know…"

"Ssh…"

"I had no idea he'd…that he'd been…" She couldn't seem to bring herself to say it. "And then when I opened the door I saw him lying there and I knew what had happened, but he wouldn't _wake up_, John, he wouldn't wake up no matter what I did, and he was barely breathing, and all I could think was, oh god, please, don't let me lose him like this, _please_…" Her words dissolved into thick sobs. John swallowed, rubbing small circles into her shoulders and staring blankly over the top of her head until her crying had run its course.

"I had no idea what to do," she said finally, sniffling and loosening herself from his arms just enough to wipe her eyes and readjust her glasses. "I know I should have called an ambulance, but as it was happening all I could think was that I needed to get him to wake up, and so I dragged him into the shower, and by the time you arrived…" Her sentence trailed off and she glanced up guiltily at John. "I suppose I panicked. I'm so sorry."

John closed his eyes, resting his chin delicately on top of Mrs. Hudson's head for support. Later—maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after—when his nerves had calmed he didn't feel the overwhelming urge to scream and send his fist flying into the nearest wall, he would think of a kind way to tell Mrs. Hudson that putting an overdose victim into a cold shower was, in fact, extremely dangerous, and damn to hell whatever trite crime drama undoubtedly planted the idea in her head. He would tell her that, and then he would take her hand in his own, calmly explaining how cold water could send the body of the victim into shock, and that they were very, very lucky that tonight her error hadn't sent Sherlock into cardiac arrest upon their bathroom floor. He would think of a way to say all of that with love and tact, in a way that would run the least risk of causing the landlady to burst into shameful, guilty tears. But, thought John, forcing his jaw to unclench as he stepped back to look her in the face, he couldn't say any of that to Mrs. Hudson now. Not when she was so fragile, and he felt so close to his wits end, and Sherlock—_Damn him!_—still needed tending to.

"Don't be sorry, Mrs. Hudson," John said at last, focusing on the way he was still rubbing slow circles into her back to keep himself from shaking with rage. "You did everything you could. Thank you." He tried to bend his lips into a convincing smile but could feel his face refusing to comply.

Mrs. Hudson took another half step back, dabbing a final tear from her eye. "Is there anything more I can do?" she asked.

"Get some sleep."

"Are you sure?" She glanced nervously over his shoulder down the darkened hall that led to Sherlock's door, then back up to him. "You don't need anything?"

_A double shot of whiskey and a pillow to scream into, _John wanted to say, but all he said was, "I'm sure," and kissed her gently on the forehead. "I'll talk to you in the morning, all right?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "You're a good man, John Watson," she whispered fiercely. "I'm lucky to have you—" her eyes darted pointedly towards Sherlock's room "—and so is he. You're the best thing that's ever happened to him. Don't you forget that." And she patted his arm and then turned for the stairs, refusing John any chance to deny it, though he wanted to, desperately.

Sherlock had fallen asleep by the time John returned to him.

Carefully, the doctor slipped two fingers under the dozing detective's jaw, taking the man's pulse before gently prying open each of his eyes to check that his pupils weren't constricted. Once he was convinced that Sherlock was indeed sleeping soundly—past the danger zone of coma and shock, and at least his heart felt a little lighter for that—John removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and reached for the medical supplies to set about cleaning Sherlock's injuries.

The lacerations weren't as severe as he'd suspected. Using the tea towel and basin of water Mrs. Hudson had scrounged from the kitchen, John squeezed a trickle of water along the soles of Sherlock's feet and was relieved to find that the coagulated blood and dirt rinsed away to reveal just a few minor cuts, which he quickly checked for glass and then daubed with the antiseptic. After each foot was bandaged with a few layers of gauze secured with medical tape, John turned his attention to Sherlock's hand.

By now his knees were sore from kneeling at the detective's bedside, so he pulled a nearby desk chair close, sinking into it with a grunt before leaning down to inspect Sherlock's bloodied knuckles. He was halfway through checking them for glass when he realized that Sherlock's eyes were open and watching him.

"Hey there," John murmured, keeping his face neutral even though the detective's unwavering, silent gaze was making him distinctly uncomfortable in the wake of the kiss. But, John forcefully reminded himself, he wasn't thinking about _that_. "Do you feel sick at all?" he asked, focusing perhaps a bit too intently on his removal of a small silver shard from Sherlock's knuckle. "Nauseous?"

"Cold," Sherlock answered, and John felt a tremor run through the detective's hand as he spoke.

"Well, just try to relax, I'm almost finished," John said, and it was true, even though the remainder of the work took twice as long as it should've—those blue-grey eyes were making him terribly clumsy, it seemed, and at one point the doctor nearly upset the basin as he lowered it to the floor.

"John," Sherlock mumbled sleepily, a few minutes later. John glanced up at the detective just as he finished affixing the loose end of the bandage to Sherlock's hand.

"Yeah?"

But Sherlock didn't seem to be listening. His half-lidded eyes had turned misty once again, and while they were turned upwards to a point on the ceiling his mind seemed somewhere else entirely. "You came for me," he finally whispered.

"Of course I did," said John.

"Of course you did," parroted Sherlock, sounding light years away. "Yes. I sent the boy after you. Of course."

John frowned. "You sent me a _text_, Sherlock," he corrected, and then, speculatively: "What boy?"

"_Me_, John," said Sherlock. He'd turned his head and was talking into his pillow now; his eyes drooped heavily, nearly shut. "But young. Younger me." The detective paused, and a sudden, raspy laugh spilled from his lips. "My god, John," he breathed. _"Freckles. _Can you believe it? It was absolutely…absolutely _fascinating_…" His sentence tapered into an incoherent mumble and then died. John shook his head, unable to make sense of the non sequitur.

"Just go to sleep, Sherlock," he murmured gently, rearranging himself in the chair and trying to make his own self as comfortable as possible. Sherlock made an unintelligible noise in response, snuggling deep into the bedding. His bandaged hand trembled slightly once more as he drew it near his face, and John noticed that the detective's pale eyes were still partly open and staring straight at him. "I'm not going anywhere," John reassured them. "I'm not leaving you. Now sleep." And Sherlock seemed placated; within seconds his eyes slid shut, and hardly a minute later his breathing deepened and evened out into the telltale sign of slumber.

John sighed, toeing off his shoes and pulling his tie loose from his neck. He could feel the twinge in his leg as he moved—_Psychosomatic_, he tried to remind himself, _mind over matter_—but the muscle stiffness refused to yield. Woe be it to Sherlock if his limp returned over this, mused John; he'd wallop the detective over the head with his cane first chance he got if he was forced to dig it out of his closet come morning. The thought of that made him smile, and though John knew he ought to be keeping watchful vigil over Sherlock for at least another couple hours, his thoughts soon began to drift and scatter as he sleepily imagined chasing the detective through the flat, wielding his cane high above his head like a Scottish claymore. His smile deepened, and the doctor's eyes slid shut as the dream took hold: He was clad in a tartan kilt and bounding over tables and chairs after Sherlock, who was evading him gracefully but whom John knew couldn't keep the pace up forever. It took a long while, but at last the world's only consulting detective miscalculated—tripped himself up somehow—and John pivoted, leaping through the air just in time to bring his cane crashing down upon Sherlock's great swollen head.

"Gotcha!" he cried triumphantly, and Lestrade said, "_Finally_."

John looked up. The familiar trappings of 221B had vanished, inexplicably replaced by a set of great stone pillars and Gothic arches vaguely reminiscent of those of Westminster Abbey, but there was paneled glass, too, office-grade plasterboard and buzzing bluish-white fluorescent lights, all threaded through with an adrenaline-fueled atmosphere that just _screamed_ New Scotland Yard. "Finally," Lestrade repeated, and he slowly lowered the massive chemistry textbook from which he'd been reciting, staring expectantly down at John from behind a podium (or was it an altar?) and about two hundred members of the press corps John could feel poised at his back, cameras and recorders at the ready. All eyes seemed to be on him. "Well, get on with it then!" the D.I.-turned-vicar urged, rolling his eyes as his face split open into a wide grin, and he threw his arm out to indicate someone standing next to John, but the only person standing there was Sherlock.

Sherlock, draped in his white sheet, beaming down at John as though he couldn't be happier.

There was nothing else for it. John kissed him, and all the bulbs of the press snapped off in a frenzied succession of white flashes—the promise of tomorrow's tabloid headlines mixed with raucous cheers. "See that, what did I tell you? You owe me 20 quid now, Anderson!" the voice of Sally Donovan called out, floating somewhere over the merry din of congratulatory chatter and applause, and Mrs. Hudson blew her nose and Lestrade laughed and the last thing John remembered as he broke from Sherlock's lips and turned to face the crowd was the hazy image of Mycroft, petulantly inspecting his nails in the corner of the nearest pew and looking as though he couldn't quite believe he'd taken time out of his very busy, very important schedule and come halfway across London just to attend such an absolutely _ridiculous_ wedding.

oOo

John awoke to an intense pain in his lower back. Groaning, slowly shedding layers of sleep and the last fragments of a dream he already couldn't recall, he shifted about to try and lessen the ache—and had to act fast to catch himself on the back of his chair to avoid slipping off the seat. The doctor hung awkwardly like that for a moment, blinking in groggy disorientation and unable to remember why he'd fallen asleep in his clothes and a chair instead of his pajamas and his bed.

But then a soft, sleep-addled mumble from Sherlock's bed drew John's attention upwards, and everything rushed back to him: Mary. Sherlock. Cocaine and heroin. Sherlock. Blood and glass. Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock. Overdose. Sherlock. Shower. Sherlock.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

_Kiss_.

John's stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot. Wincing, he stood up, plunging the memory into the far recesses of his brain and frowning at the way his joints creaked as he straightened his back and padded to Sherlock's side. The detective was still safely sound asleep, though he'd tossed a bit and upset his comforter in his slumber. John righted it, then grabbed his mobile from the nightstand and returned to the chair, feeling scuzzy and old. He checked the time.

It was 5:48 am. That meant he'd slept for a little over 2 hours—as well as, it appeared, straight through two missed calls from Mary, whom he'd completely forgotten to call back, even though he'd promised her he would. _Wonderful_. John huffed out a breath, staring bleakly at his phone until the screen went dim. _What a hellish night_, he thought miserably. And now, well, now there was nothing left to do but to wait for morning and the inevitable fallout. As he turned the events of the past several hours over in his head, thoughts of the kiss drifted back to him in the darkness. John made an honest effort to shut them away, but every vivid, wet, heated, forceful—his brain spewed out a string of compromising adjectives before he could stop it—detail remained agonizingly clear in his mind's eye, coupled with the ghostly memory of Sherlock's breathless plea: _I need you so desperately, John…_

"Damn it all," John whispered. His head sank into his hands. "Damn, damn, damn."

A few feet away, Sherlock rolled over in his sleep.


	4. Price's Theorem

**Hello, all! Oh my, it's been a while, hasn't it? Such a long, long while. I am SO sorry. (Note: You can't tell through the writing, but that apology really is 100% earnest and not sarcastic in any way.) If it helps to know, the muse stuck around just long enough for me to figure out where I wanted this chapter to go, then ran off the moment I tried to get some serious chunks of writing done.**

**But here it is! Chapter IV! Thanks to all of you, wherever you are out there in the big world of the Internet, for sticking with me; as I've stated before, this thing will be finished, come hell or high water. In the mean time, let me say again that the reception this story has been getting is amazing. _Amazing. _Over fifty favs? Over _100 _follows?! And the reviews! *dies***

**Crazy.  
**

* * *

oOo

**IV: Price's Theorem**

The remnants of the broken ceramic mug fell to the bottom of the skip with a resonant crash.

Stepping back, John inhaled deeply, relishing the way the chilly air stung his throat with each breath. Brushing his hands upon the front of his coat, he cast his listless eyes about the alleyway until at last they fell to the ground, where the fallen snow—so white and pristine the night before—had begun its slow afternoon thaw, mixing with the grime of the concrete until at last decomposing into little more than unpleasant-looking brown slush. Frowning slightly, the doctor nudged a pile of it with his toe, watching as the black-flecked clump broke away and landed with a plop in a puddle by the edge of the bin.

Overhead, a low-flying airplane filled the sky with a cold drone.

John watched it pass over in the puddle's murky reflection. There was something fierce and unforgiving in its noise, he thought, something harsh in the way it was melding with the crisp light of the sun and falling down upon his head in an oppressive rush. Something almost panic-inducing. Something…_warlike._ The doctor closed his eyes, suppressing a shiver, and all at once became acutely aware of both the taste and smell of cigarette smoke wafting down from the second story of the fire escape, nearly overpowering in intensity. With it came awareness of another subtle yet equally uncomfortable sensation: the slow burn of a focused gaze, currently boring a hole into the back of his head. John sucked in a sharp breath. Managing to hold his ground just long enough for the turbines' hum to fade into the street noise spilling down the alley, he made an abrupt about-face, his boots falling heavily upon the stairs as he propelled himself up them two at a time and then back into the building, slamming the service door hard behind him.

He didn't once look up. Sherlock, staring down from above as he readjusted his weight against the steel railing and set a newly lit fag securely between his teeth, was not surprised.

oOo

The blood was the most pressing issue.

That was what John decided, standing in the darkened sitting room at a bit past six in the morning and trying to rub the last stubborn grains of sleep from his eyes. He'd just completed a once-over of the flat, checking all the rooms thoroughly to make sure nothing egregious had been laid amiss. It was something he ought to have done before falling asleep, but there was no use now in kicking himself over the thought of what might have happened had a muddled Sherlock left some toxic experiment setting out or the gas at the stove running, for those things hadn't happened, and there was enough to be getting on with as it was. At least the crippling twinge that had threatened his leg hours previously had gone, though all things considered, thought the doctor, that was somewhat hollow consolation. His attention fell back to the bloody prints. Sherlock must have sliced his feet open repeatedly on the fallen glass at various points throughout the night; it was the only way to account for the sheer number of reddish-brown trails now criss-crossing the floors. John squinted, flipping on the nearest lamp to get a better look.

_I wonder…_

Turning slowly, John's eyes followed one trail as it led away from him and then intersected another several feet away. There was a pattern here, surely, a series of events to be understood; by separating and following the tracks there was a very good chance he'd be able to piece together just what had gone on here in his absence—

But no. Ugh, _god _no. _It's far too early for that_, he thought. The feelings were too fresh, too infuriating.

Too _much_, which he realized soon after beginning to clean. For despite of the calming numbness afforded him by the methodical motion of his hands scrubbing back and forth across the linoleum, John wasn't long into the work before his thoughts began to wander, and the images that rose up to claim the void of his mind were almost too painful to entertain: Sherlock, shooting up in the kitchen, Sherlock, high, and the way he must have acted in that state, what he must have looked like and said and the way he'd been when John had come bursting into the flat, panicked and out of breath, of Mrs. Hudson's frantic sobs and his hands pushing her out of the way to get to the limp white form curled on the shower tiles, because _Oh my god Sherlock, don't be dead, don't be dead, don't be dead, I couldn't bear to lose you and you're all I have and don't you do this to me Sherlock, DON'T YOU DARE—_

John froze mid-scrub, squeezing his eyes shut to quell the sudden pressure building in his chest. Swaying gently on his hands and knees, he clutched the damp rag in his fist and slowly began breathing in and out, in and out, just the way he'd been taught to do shortly after returning home from Afghanistan, when his paranoia had been so extreme the smallest bump in the night was enough to trigger a full-blown panic attack. _In and out, _he thought, gritting his teeth. _In and out, until it passes. Until you can move again._

And it did pass, though it left a wave of fatigue in its wake, and suddenly the prospect of spending another hour removing Sherlock's bloody footprints from the floors with the smell of diluted bleach in his nose didn't seem appealing to John in the slightest. He hauled himself to his feet just in time to catch the early rays of daybreak peeking in through the windows.

At the mere sight, his exhaustion tripled immediately.

Still, it was only after he'd retrieved and forced his way through the first two sections of the morning paper and then conducted a last quick checkup on Sherlock—_Still sleeping, pulse and breathing stable, bandages dry and secure_—that John collapsed into his armchair and finally, _finally_, allowed himself to sleep.

He awoke several hours later with the business section draped haphazardly across his chest. Bright mid-morning sun was pouring into the flat, and John winked and sat up, feeling a tad out-of-sorts but blessedly refortified by the rest. Following a much-needed shower, he commenced the cleaning in batches, interspersing each chore with a short break—eggs and toast, a few minutes of telly, a bit of web-surfing—and slowly, in little concrete bursts, the flat fell back into order, and John's mood with it. The undercurrents of malcontent didn't dry completely, John knew, stretching to reach under the couch to retrieve Sherlock's mobile and cringing at the sizable crack that had manifested in the upper corner of its glass face _(Dropped? Knocked over? Thrown?);_ those were things that would need to be worked out later, with the detective himself. But at least it was easier working in the daylight. Everything felt easier to face at this hour, in fact, less nightmarish and more easily rationalized. Even Sherlock's kiss, which had all but stupefied John mere hours before, now seemed rather harmless. Sure it had been untoward, but was it really something that couldn't be chalked up to a mixture of coke and heroin in the veins? What could it have been other than an act of pure delusion? Besides, thought the doctor, Sherlock probably wouldn't even remember it had happened. It would be foolish to fret over it any longer.

Bolstered by that conclusion, John set about returning Mary's calls. To his great relief he found her forgiving and cheerful; the pall his forced departure had cast over them the previous night seemed to have miraculously lifted, and after a few minutes of amiable chatting the pair decided to meet the next afternoon for coffee. Even the issue of Mrs. Hudson resolved itself neatly—the woman had done some web-surfing of her own, it seemed, and upon realizing her mistake in response to Sherlock's unconsciousness the night before come before John, sniffling and openly admitting she felt properly ashamed. John eased her grief with a hug and a few words of consolation, and even let the landlady pop her head into the still-sleeping detective's room to convince her that no harm had come of it and to assure her that Sherlock was indeed recovering nicely. And Mrs. Hudson seemed to rally, for soon enough she was patting John's arm and inviting him downstairs for sandwiches, an offer John was more than happy to oblige.

It was only upon returning to the flat afterwards that the doctor's good mood began to wane. Because there was one last thing in the flat to take care of, and John had been avoiding it for hours, ever since stumbling upon it early in the morning. Turning briskly into the kitchen and making a beeline for the counter, John reached up, pulling the percolator down from the cupboard along with the tin of coffee behind it. _You're stalling_, he chastised himself, measuring out several cups of water in the pot. _Get on with it. _And yet it wasn't until the doctor had his finished mug of coffee in his hands that he finally scraped together the wherewithal to turn around and face what lay waiting for him upon the kitchen table.

For all intents and purposes it looked like a leather journal case, A4 standard. John forced himself to stare hard at it, drinking in the way it was finely made yet modest in design, its only embellishments a simple tooling pattern around the seams and a neat brass clasp on the folding flap.

Slowly, he allowed his eyes to journey on, over the bag of syringe filters, the lighter, the powders, the spoon and its sticky residue, and finally to the used needle, looking faintly sinister in the way it was lying discarded in the middle of the scene like the epicenter of a tiny earthquake. _This was where he did it_, wondered John, and the thought filled him with an uncomfortable mixture of fear and awe. _Right here, in the flat, in our kitchen, on our table._ It was a surreal notion, almost unbelievable, yet there was something oddly domestic about it, too. Something furtive, almost shy. Something very sad. John's gaze wavered back to the case. Where had Sherlock been hiding this? The doctor was sure he'd never seen it before—had it really been here in the flat all this time? If Lestrade…the memory of the D.I.'s false drugs bust the first night John had moved in to Baker Street fluttered to the surface of the doctor's mind. If Lestrade had managed to find this case then…John shook his head. It was a thought too ugly to contemplate.

He wondered how Sherlock received the case. Perhaps he'd owned it previously, a gift from an uncle or some other distant relative? Or had the detective bought it himself, precisely for the purpose of storing his drugs paraphernalia? And if so, when? Mind suddenly alight with the rather macabre image of a teenaged Sherlock browsing for such a thing amongst the wares of some high-end stationary shop, John almost smiled. He'd never seen a picture of Sherlock in his younger years, but the detective must have been all arms and legs at that age, surely, not yet grown into his new height, and he would have looked quite a sight shuffling between racks of pens and inkwells and notebooks with his hands stuffed in his pockets to hide his awkwardness. And spots? It seemed ludicrous to imagine Sherlock with spots, and yet there must have been a time, once, when even the world's only consulting detective had had to deal with them; he'd borne the trials of puberty the same as everyone else. And so it was that slowly, as if through a fog, a picture came together in John's mind of a gangly young man, clumsy and self-conscious and too smart for his own good, and painfully lacking in the grand deportment he undoubtedly only adopted much later in recompense—that constant air of disaffected pride, the lithe gracefulness, the intense, commanding presence…

…the way his whole being would come alive in the dash and scrape of a chase, the way his every atom almost thrummed in the face of danger and the excitement of a challenge; the gallant sweep of his coat and his bright, brilliant eyes gleaming like a tiger's in the dark London night…

John blinked, pulling himself back to reality with a self-reproving grunt. _Don't make people into heroes, John. _Sherlock's scolding words tumbled through the doctor's head. _Heroes don't exist. __And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them. _

John didn't know if he agreed with that or not. But he did understand in a sense, because it wasn't fair to glamorize Sherlock's life, distorting him into some kind of dramatic idol when in reality he was just a man—a great man, true—but still just a man. The detective was caricatured enough by the press and by the Yarders; surely John didn't need to be casting his lot in with them as well. Truth was in the _facts alone_, wasn't that what Sherlock had taught him? Truth was in what could be observed directly. The doctor glanced down at the case once more.

_Handsome and practical_, he concluded after a moment of consideration. _Just like Sherlock._ And, somehow, that was the most upsetting thought of all.

Three smart raps at the kitchen door tore John from his musings. Glancing up from the case, the doctor blinked several times to wipe what he supposed was a rather desolate expression off his face before setting his mug on the table to answer. Poor Mrs. Hudson, he thought—and at the last moment it occurred to him to quickly push in all the table chairs so that the flat would look at least marginally composed when she entered—it hurt to think she still feeling anxious with him, enough now to feel the need to knock instead of just entering directly as she usually did. "Mrs. Hudson," he called out reassuringly, reaching to pull open the door with one hand and fussing with his shirt collar with the other, "there's no need to knock, everything's—"

The "fine" on the tip of John's tongue evaporated instantly. For standing in the doorway was not the sweet old landlady John had been anticipating, but rather a tall and imposing man, draped in a heavy wool greatcoat and an atmosphere of haughty composure.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," the man said smoothly, and John glowered.

"This isn't a good time, Mycroft."

"_That—_" Mycroft's hand shot out to prevent John from slamming the door in his face "—is exactly why I'm here." He took a deep breath through his nose, drawing out the beat of silence to allow the weight of his words to sink in fully. "Now, if you don't mind," he continued, "I'd like to see my brother."

"How did you get in here?" John growled, but Mycroft only arched an entitled brow, and John frowned, running his eyes over the man's gloved fingers as they firmly held the door ajar. Lambskin leather. Hand stitched. Probably purchased along with the coat, which was also almost certainly bespoke. John couldn't keep his lip from curling slightly—the lot probably cost a good half of what John made in a year.

A soft chuckle drew the doctor's attention back to Mycroft's face. "Nicely done, John," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards in mild amusement. "Right on all counts, save one. The gloves are peccary, you see, not shearling." His indulgent smirk increased fractionally. "Still, how encouraging it is to know that living with Sherlock has at least _some _positive side-effects." John pressed his lips together, forcing himself to breathe steadily as Mycroft's piercing eyes swept over him in return.

_And just what are you observing, Mr. Holmes?_ John mused hotly, feeling the lines in his face deepen as anger bled into his system. _The bags under my eyes? The new grey hairs at my temples? I bet I look older, don't I—I bet I've aged whole years from last night alone. Is that what you're doing—adding up the ways your brother's slowly killing me? Maybe you've noticed the scratches he left on my face last night, or no, let met guess—the way I'm back to favoring my bad leg? Is that it? Maybe you can tell exactly what I'm thinking now. Can you do that, Mycroft? Can you tell I'm calling you a pompous git right to your fat fucking face?! _

Scowling, John's gaze flicked down the man analyzing him. Mycroft was dressed flawlessly as always, and yet, to John's great surprise and despite the fact that he was positively stewing, the doctor was able to detect something faintly harried resting just beneath the man's polished exterior, something that tugged on the corners of his eyes and drew the smallest amount of color from his cheeks. _Stress_, John realized. _Travel. Jet lag? No, not quite enough time for that, but he's come a long way in a hurry—_

"How'd you know to come?" John asked suddenly. "You were out of the country last night. How'd you know Sherlock was in trouble?" Mycroft's grin widened into something almost genuine.

"Now that really _is _impressive," he drawled, tipping his head at John in glib praise. "Truly, doctor, your deductive skills are improving tremendously. Bravo." The complement dropped off into an expectant pause. But John kept his shoulders tense, and when at last it became clear that Mycroft wasn't crossing the threshold without a straight answer to the doctor's question, he relented.

"I haven't bugged your flat, if that's what you're wondering," he sighed. "Trust me, I learnt long ago that all such endeavors are little more than a waste of my time and the government's property. That said, I do like to keep a spare eye or two on Baker Street—" and here his casual tone hardened just the slightest amount "—and in light of recent events I'd say such surveillance is entirely justified." His eyes flicked pointedly to his hand, still resting upon the door, and when they traveled back to meet John's own the doctor found they were filled with a measured determination that, while not exactly cold, was staggering in its intensity. "Now," breathed Mycroft, "as I said before, I am here to see my brother."

John closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Look," he huffed, releasing the word on a lungful of air he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I'm sorry, but I just really don't think that this is a good idea. He's not even awake right now, and after what happened he needs as much rest as he can get—"

"Let him in, John."

The baritone voice caught John by surprise. It was a wonder he didn't develop whiplash from the speed at which his neck swiveled at the sound, but, after clearing the momentary shock from his system, John was at last able to register the sight of Sherlock standing just a few feet to his right. The detective had clearly just rolled out of bed and had the disheveled appearance to prove it; his dark hair stuck out at odd ends, forming a frizzled, slightly greasy halo around his wan face, which was stretched taut at every angle and dusted with the grungy shadow that resulted from missing a day's shave. But at least, thought John, there was a ghosting of color in that face now that hadn't been there the night before; at least Sherlock was standing upright, able to walk and talk, and, John noted, at least the shakes and tremors of withdrawal seemed to have subsided.

At least Sherlock was _alive. _

John wasn't sure how long he stood there staring, but at last Mycroft cleared his throat impatiently and the doctor started, having forgotten the man was still waiting upon the landing. John threw the detective a sideways glance. "Are you sure, Sherlock?" he asked cautiously, automatically lowering his voice though of course there was no shielding the words from Mycroft at such proximity. He tried to communicate the next part with his eyes: _Because if you don't want to do this right now…_

"It's _fine_," Sherlock interjected sharply, cutting off John's mental probe, and he barely spared the doctor a second glance before striding forward and roughly yanking the door open himself. For one tense moment the entire flat fell deathly silent, three men standing stock-still save the flaring of Sherlock's nostrils as he drew in several deep breaths and assessed his brother with an expression as contemptuous as it was closed. _Trying to keep from giving anything away_, John supposed, and then Mycroft spoke.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock." The man's tone was neither warm nor cold, but Sherlock's answering scowl suggested the detective was seriously considering spitting in his brother's face regardless.

"Tea, John!" he finally grumbled, keeping his bright eyes fixed on Mycroft before turning on his heel and stalking to his favorite chair, the back of his dressing gown fluttering behind him as he went. John stared mutely after the undulating folds, wondering absently if the wounds on Sherlock's feet stung him when he walked and if it was time yet for his bandages to be changed, and it wasn't until Sherlock had fallen against the plush leather in a heap of limbs and belabored sighs that the detective's order registered in his brain.

"I-I've already made coffee…" John stammered quickly, gesturing to the half-filled percolator that was still warming its remaining contents on the worktop. His line of sight was immediately blocked by Mycroft as the man swept across the threshold and into the flat.

"Tea sounds lovely, John, thank you," the elder brother agreed pleasantly, ignoring the irritated flash in John's eyes as he paused momentarily to shuck off his coat and gloves in a single fluid movement, deposit them in the flummoxed doctor's arms, and then start off again, his polished wingtips clicking smartly on the floorboards as he whisked himself to the nearest window and immediately set to peering down into the street with his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

John opened his mouth to protest—something about not being the bloody butler and if Sherlock and Mycroft wanted tea they could make it their own damn selves—but the tension building in the flat was already becoming markedly uncomfortable. So John said nothing, just hung Mycroft's belongings on the hook by the door and then stalked to the counter to put the kettle on. He did, however, allow himself the rather amusing mental image of Mycroft at home, standing in front of a full-length mirror and taking that coat on and off, on and off, practicing until he'd worked out the exact movements necessary for optimum pretentious effect. Perhaps he even made notes. John bit his lip to stifle a giggle.

Yes, he bet Mycroft made notes.

Unfortunately, the situation brewing in the sitting room John returned a few minutes later, tea in hand, was anything but comical—in fact, in the couple minutes it had taken to boil the water, the mood between Sherlock and Mycroft had deteriorated from slightly cool to downright glacial. Cautiously glancing up at one brother, then over to the other, John set the tray down upon the table as softly as he could manage, then picked up Sherlock's cup and added two sugars before carrying it to the detective, whose thin fingers reached out to claim it from John's own slowly, and without so much as a word of thanks. Several very long minutes of silence thus ensued, with Mycroft still at the window, Sherlock staring motionlessly over the rim of his cup into apparent space, and John hovering uncertainly at the kitchen doors, not sure if he should stay or leave, or if either brother even remembered he was still there. Eventually, though—_Finally—_Mycroft sighed, and turned from the afternoon light to prepare his own cup. Sherlock's eyes swiveled sideways at the light tinkling of metal upon porcelain.

"So, what took you so long?" he asked, his voice laced with an obvious note of derision. "I thought you'd have been here hours ago. Or are you becoming slow in your old age?"

Mycroft tipped his head to the side, not looking up from the spoon he was currently using to stir a portion of milk into his tea. Carefully, almost thoughtfully, he set the spoon down, then crossed the room to John's chair, where he settled himself across from Sherlock with effortless poise. "I've been in Brussels," he explained lightly, taking a sip of the steaming liquid and watching Sherlock as Sherlock watched him. His cup landed in its saucer with a pointed _clink_. "Or couldn't you tell?"

For a fraction of a second John saw a storm erupt in Sherlock's eyes, a tumult of lightning and fury that threatened to spill over into the rest of his face. By the next instant, however, it was swept away, replaced with a grin that was wry but otherwise benign. "Tragic," the detective drawled, shaking his head in faux lamentation. "Mycroft Holmes, the man once considered the very heart of the British government, now reduced to working the EU circuit at the behest of his betters. What a shame. Sounds like your career's on a bit of a downward slope, brother dear."

"I was forced to return three days ahead of schedule, Sherlock," Mycroft pressed on, sidestepping the detective's jibe. "Not that I'd expect you to care, but that's several very important meetings I'm now going to miss, meetings where my presence was requested directly, and, I dare say, sorely needed."

Sherlock scoffed, flicking his hand in Mycroft's direction as if shooing away a bug. "Hardly my concern," he muttered.

"Perhaps not directly," admitted Mycroft, lowering his cup as for the first time that afternoon an element of frigidity worked its way into his tone. "But they are my professional affairs, Sherlock, and if your actions should cause to draw me away from them, then I, and therefore they, do in fact become expressly _your concern_." Sherlock pursed his lips, but remained silent. "It may not have occurred to you," Mycroft continued slowly, "but there _are_ people in this world who actually give credence the consequences of their actions, myself included. And that means I take very seriously the responsibilities of my position as well as the superiors to which I must hold myself accountable." He took final sip of tea, then set his cup aside and folded his hands neatly in his lap. "The Prime Minister was not amused when I explained to him the reasons for my early return," he explained, enunciating each syllable carefully. "Not. At. All." Sherlock rolled his eyes and rearranged himself in his chair.

"Well, I'm sure your waistline thanks you, at the very least," he said, chuckling as a dark smirk wormed its way into his features. "Tell me, how much chocolate did customs let you ferry across the border this time?" Mycroft's eye twitched.

"_I__mpudence_, Sherlock," he ground out fiercely, "is nothing more than a cover for a man who has squandered all superior defenses." He pinned the detective with a scathing glare. "Please, brother, don't demean yourself any further than you have already. It is a rather pitiful sight, I must admit."

The barb landed like a lightning strike, sucking the air from the room—John didn't think he'd ever seen Sherlock draw in upon himself quicker. All traces of mirth flew from his face at once, and though the doctor didn't quite know how he managed it, somehow, without moving a muscle, the detective seemed abruptly half his original size, far too small for his pajamas and his robe and the weight of the accusation now looming in the air between himself and his sibling. Angling his face downward as though it were a physical thing needing avoiding, Sherlock clutched his cup of tea, staring fixedly into the amber liquid as though he'd suddenly spotted something very interesting painted on the bottom of his cup.

"You are going to put a stop to this, Sherlock," Mycroft went on, leaning forward and striking John with the impression of a hawk zeroing in on weakened prey, a fearsome flash of beak and talons. "You are going to end it, _now_, or I promise that any clemency you currently enjoy from me, any occasional advantage or little protections my position affords you, will cease._ Immediately_." Sherlock flinched, as though that last "immediately" was a dart Mycroft had shot deep into his side. He didn't, however, look up, and he didn't respond. Mycroft settled back in his seat.

"Now, brother," he said, and suddenly his tone was calm and matter-of-fact once more, as though he were commenting on nothing more serious than the passing weather, "you are going to tell me _exactly_ what happened last night."

And Sherlock actually _whimpered. _

John had to grab the doorframe to keep his knee from giving out beneath him. He'd never heard Sherlock whimper before, not ever—was there not a single thing on earth that hadn't been turned topsy-turvy in the past fifteen hours? What the _hell_ was going on? Gradually, the doctor's eyes fell back to Sherlock, only to be further startled by just how strained the detective's expression had become. He looked physically sick now, squirming slightly in his seat as though there was a knife stuck somewhere in his gut. _Pleading_, John realized, his heart clenching painfully. _My god, he's actually _pleading _with his brother not to tell…_ The doctor felt the knee-jerk impulse to protect Sherlock rear up powerfully inside his chest at the sight, and yet for all its strength John's legs remained strangely unresponsive, his jaw clenched tightly shut despite a small piece of him that wanted nothing more than to grab Mycroft by the lapels of that filthily expensive three-piece suit and order him out of the flat for good, peccary gloves and all.

But John didn't, and the seconds continued to stretch painfully. "I…" Sherlock began slowly, hoarsely, still staring into the cold remnants of his tea. "I don't want you involving John in this, Mycroft."

"And why not?" the elder Holmes shot back, taking the opportunity to once again ladle venom into his tone. "_You_ most certainly did." Sherlock blanched, but at last something forceful crept back into his expression, and as his eyes swept back to meet his brother's John could read their silent message with vicious clarity: _Push me all you like, Mycroft, but I'll not say another word in front of him_.

John wasn't sure if he found that response uplifting or upsetting. For as encouraging as it was too see Sherlock exhibiting some of his usual brusqueness, there was also a very powerful part of the doctor that wanted to hear Sherlock's answer to Mycroft's question. After all, _he_, John Watson, had been the one who took care of Sherlock last night. _He'd_ bandaged the detective's injuries. _He'd _watched over him as he slept. _He'd _cleaned the flat in the morning. That responsibility had fallen on his own unlucky shoulders, and he'd done it, and he hadn't complained_. _He'd been a good doctor, a good flatmate. He'd been a good _friend_. So didn't Sherlock, at the very least, owe him an explanation?

After everything, thought John, didn't he _deserve _one?

But the doctor barely had time to feel the white-hot rage seeping in at the edges of his consciousness before Mycroft's voice was cutting into his inner monologue, scattering his thoughts.

"P-pardon?" John stuttered.

"I merely asked, John," repeated Mycroft, "if you would mind stepping out for a bit." He'd turned in his chair and was staring at John good-naturedly, but his tone was patronizing, a voice a parent might use to reign in an errant child. The doctor felt his lips twist into an indignant half-frown, half-scowl, and his eyes flicked up to Sherlock, who'd gone back to staring into his teacup.

"Actually, I—"

"Perhaps you have groceries to purchase?" Mycroft interrupted quickly, drawing John's attention again. "Dry cleaning to retrieve…an ATM to visit…?" He twirled his hand lazily as he spoke, stretching out the words with the kind of casual condescension indicative of a man who hadn't needed to tend to such pedestrian matters himself for quite some time. At last his face settled back into a mask of default stoicism. "I really think it would be for the best," he finished firmly.

"But…" John began, and then turned to his flatmate. "Sherlock…?" But the detective seemed determined to avoid his gaze.

"Just go, John," he murmured softly. "Please."

Perhaps it was the "please" that did it. John wasn't sure; all he knew was that at some point, somehow, his legs jerked back into working order, and his hands began fumbling to collect his shoes, his keys, his wallet, all the time moving of what felt very much like their own accord. "All right then," he heard himself muttering, running a hand through his greying hair—_Greying because Sherlock is killing me, _John remembered, almost wrathfully. And that sparked the rage once more, that old too-familiar feeling of Sherlock managing to shut him out of an apology and an explanation (and now his flat) all at once. But it stayed locked away, tamped down by the way John was already pulling his jacket on and heading down the stairs, all the while nodding his head as though this all made perfect sense, and by his lips, which kept mumbling, over and over again, "Fine. I'll go. Fine."

oOo

John slid through the next hour in a haze. The world was such a strange, strange place, he thought, so peculiar; and just look at all the people—on the Tube, in the streets, in the shops—all going about their day as though they hadn't a clue. Couldn't they sense something had shifted, had gone horribly awry in the course of the night? Couldn't they _tell, _thought the doctor, marveling at the way the jeweler seemed so _normal _as he explained to John that the repairs to his watch wouldn't be ready for another week at least. Backed up due to the holidays, it seemed, and John felt his neck jerk in an automatic nod before he continued on, brushing past the few others crowding the shop, including a young woman closely inspecting an assortment of rings beneath the counter glass. Irritating. Didn't she know she was smudging the glass by leaning in so close? Couldn't she see the boyfriend she'd dragged along wasn't the least bit interested in whatever stone or setting she was excitedly pointing to, that he kept checking the time on his mobile and glancing distractedly out to the traffic in the street? He couldn't stand her, clearly. Forget about a proposal; he'd probably leave her within the month.

And that was _irritating, _thought John, wincing away from a too-bright sun and stomping down the busy pavement with his chin buried deep within the collar of his coat. It was irritating that people couldn't see what was right in front of them. The doctor frowned, pausing to wait for the light to change at an intersection alongside a man who was practically shouting into his phone something about stocks in a grating Northern accent. Jesus, didn't people know how _loud _they were?

That thought stayed with John for a while, across several streets and in every step he took, in every breath drawn into his chest and then out once more. Loud, irritating, obnoxious people clogging a loud, irritating, obnoxious city, he thought, and all of them stumbling through life in a great haphazard mess. It was a miracle London didn't fly apart under the sheer force of their collective ignorance, brick by godforsaken brick.

And that thought was so unbelievably _Sherlockian_ that the surprise of it spewing from his own brain instead instantly snapped John from his funk, and he looked down, realizing with a start that he'd been trudging about Tesco for the past fifteen minutes without putting a single thing in his trolley. Glancing sheepishly about to make sure he hadn't been attracting stares, the doctor bit his lip, trying to think and finding it disturbingly difficult to recall much of anything from the past half hour. He hadn't been talking aloud to himself, had he? _Oh, please, _thought John. _Please don't tell me I'm going mental over this._

Either way, this was probably a sign he should be getting home. Quickly, the doctor grabbed the nearest item off the nearest shelf—_A can of beans, always useful in a pinch_—and headed for the till. At least Mycroft would be gone by the time he returned, he thought. Thank god for small victories.

Except that Mycroft wasn't. Clambering out of the cab, reshuffling the garment bags in his arms (he'd picked up two of Sherlock's suits from the cleaner's on his way back), John eyed the sleek black car still parked outside their building in disbelief. Mycroft never remained at Baker Street for anything longer than twenty minutes. Hesitating at the foot of the doorstep, the doctor's gaze darted up to the second story windows. Were Sherlock and Mycroft still talking up behind that curtained glass?

Would John not be allowed back inside if they were?

It was an irksome thought, and yet the gentleman in John (bashed and battered as he was) felt compelled to allow the Holmes brothers their privacy, if that was what they so required. Still, there was no way he was simply going to wait here on the pavement; huffing out a breath, the doctor stepped forward and rapped on the car door window.

"Hello? Anthea?" The glass was heavily tinted, preventing John from seeing inside. "Open up; I need you to give me a status update on your boss—"

The remainder of John's sentence faltered as the driver's side door opened and a large, well-built man clad in a government-issue suit unfurled himself from the vehicle. "Mr. Holmes is traveling alone, today, Dr. Watson," the man explained stiffly, rounding the bonnet to face John directly. "His P.A. is attending other business."

_Oh._

There was something confrontational in this chauffeur's demeanor, John decided, but he refused to be intimidated, even if the man was a good eight inches taller than the doctor and the dark sunglasses he was sporting prevented John from seeing his eyes. "Look," John said finally, "all I want to know is if I can—"

"Mr. Holmes has instructed me to inform you that you are free to enter your flat as soon as you return," the chauffeur interrupted.

"Well, that's certainly _generous_ of him," the doctor answered dryly, and the chauffeur's professionally blank expression soured, his offense so immediately apparent that John was forced to turn away, concealing an amused (and, admittedly, somewhat satisfied) smirk with a polite cough. _At least he's loyal_, the doctor mused, digging in his pocket for his keys while the man's insulted glare followed him to the door, threatening to burn a hole straight through the back of his jacket. _But seriously, where does Mycroft find these guys?_

The doctor had hardly made it three steps into the foyer when, as if on cue, the elder Holmes himself rounded the stairs to meet him.

"Ah, there you are, John," he said, tugging his gloves into place and bustling forward to usher the doctor back towards the threshold. "Come. We have important matters to discuss."

"_Mycroft!_" John demanded, managing, just barely, to buck the man's hand off his shoulder before being backtracked out the door completely. The elder Holmes stepped back, visibly exasperated by the display of defiance.

"John…" he warned, glancing at the doctor with a look that suggested John should know better than to fight him. There was a fraction of a pause, and the water running in the pipes caught John's attention; his eyes flicked to the ceiling and then back to Mycroft. "Sherlock is in the shower," the man explained, taking the opportunity to crowd into John's personal space once more, leaning forward and gently extracting all the doctor's parcels from his hands, then hanging them upon the entryway hooks. "I was hoping you would indulge me in a short conversation while he's so occupied."

The doctor set his jaw. Indulging Mycroft in anything at all sounded distinctly unpleasant to John at the moment, but the elder Holmes' tone had a steel tooth in it that brooked very little argument. "A _short _conversation," John growled.

Mycroft smiled. "Of course," he agreed, and then his hand, much to John's chagrin, returned to the doctor's shoulder and steered him out the door.

oOo

Mycroft's government cars always felt faintly claustrophobic to John. There was something in their structure—plush refinement encased in glossy steel, the only light dim and grey as it filtered through the bulletproof glass—that was too coffin-like for comfort. Climbing inside now, the doctor shifted uncomfortably against the smooth leather interior, trying and failing to find a relaxing position and watching with a pang of envy as a contented Mycroft nestled into his seat, offering the militant chauffeur a nod as the door was shut behind him. He seemed so at home in this environment, wondered John, but of course this was Mycroft all over, wasn't it—contradictory, a seemingly impossible combination of hard and soft, deadly and genteel. Frowning at the thought, John ventured a nervous glance outside, where he noticed the driver remained standing on the pavement.

"We're staying here?" he asked, faintly surprised. Ducking his head to get a better look, the doctor watched through the window as the man readjusted his earpiece through a lock of blond hair before assuming a sentry-like pose by the door.

"I wanted to speak with you in private, John," answered Mycroft simply, smoothing a wrinkle from his lapel. "No Sherlock, and no staff. Just us." His expression remained pleasant, but the edge in his tone put John on guard.

"All right then," he answered, keeping his own voice carefully neutral. His eyes swept up to Mycroft's, searching, but the older man's face gave nothing away. "Shoot."

"I suppose I should begin with a few words of praise," Mycroft started, offering John a mollifying smile that, unfortunately, didn't entirely reach his eyes. "Your assistance to my brother last night in his—" a brief hesitation, "—In his _hour of crisis_," he finished, "was paramount to his recovery. Truly."

It took several seconds of dense silence for John to realize that this was probably the closest thing to a thank-you Mycroft was liable to extend his way. "You're welcome," he ground out, keen to move the conversation along. And yet Mycroft said nothing more, just continued to dissect John with a calculating stare, and it wasn't long before John was fidgeting in his seat, feeling increasingly like a live specimen trapped beneath a bell jar. His hand moved for the door. "Well, if that's everything…"

"You've never known Sherlock as a drugs user, have you, Dr. Watson?"

Mycroft's voice was sharp, shattering the silence like the crack of a whip. Slowly, John's hand fell back to his pocket, a grim weight settling in his stomach as it did.

"No," he answered.

"And at no point in your friendship have you ever discussed that period of his life or those habits with him."

It wasn't a question. John swallowed, his throat suddenly uncomfortably dry. "No," he admitted quietly, taken aback by how much saying it aloud actually hurt. _Why does it hurt? _"Never directly." Mycroft nodded.

"Then I believe it behooves me to inform you, John," he said, "though I'm aware you already in some sense know, that my brother is a man of addiction. Addicted to his work, addicted to his experiments, addicted to his cigarettes, addicted to his drugs—" He held up a hand to preemptively stifle the bubble of inquiry threatening to tumble from John's lips. "If you would simply listen for a moment, doctor," he ordered. "These are matters of some significant importance." John's mouth snapped shut.

"I'm sure you've seen by now how Sherlock craves distraction," Mycroft went on. "How he _needs _it. That's why his current endeavors, both deductive and scientific, and so good for him; they keep that beast fed, carefully contained. But, John, what you must know about my brother, what is critical to understand at times like these, is that his primary addiction has always been—and will always be—his mind. If that falters, doctor, he is lost."

Silence again, and now Mycroft was regarding John with an open expression that hinted that this was the time for questions. But John was at a loss as for what to do with the information the elder Holmes had just laid before him. He had a sense the man was leading him somewhere; perhaps casting another line would make such intentions clearer. "You, er, sound as if you're speaking from prior experience," John ventured.

"Sherlock was not what one would call an _easy _child," murmured Mycroft, eyeing the doctor carefully. "His obsessions surfaced at an early age, and made him particularly difficult to raise."

John's brow knit together. "Obsessions…?"

Mycroft sighed. "Categorizing, doctor," he explained. "_Collecting_. It may interest you to know that from the ages of five to twelve Sherlock kept everything he ever found, anything he deemed interesting or worthwhile, then stored it all away in boxes and jars and catalogued it according to a system no one else, myself included, ever managed to decipher. Yet there _was_ _a system_, for you could ask my brother for any object, or name any day or place, and he would find for you what he'd collected there in seconds. He had three whole rooms devoted to that collection by the end, John, as well as a spare pantry he'd commandeered from the cook. All this, of course, to say nothing of the lists—endless numbers of lists, and on every subject imaginable. Sherlock wrote them incessantly. The depth of detail of many was impressive to say the least."

There was no dramatic flourish at the end of Mycroft's exposition; nothing in his face or tone to suggest that anything he'd said was at all shocking or revelatory. And yet John felt the breath knocked from his lungs all the same, because the things Mycroft was telling him were so completely unexpected and because—and here John's diagnostic compulsion whirred to unwelcome life like a sharp kick to the gut—the behaviors Mycroft was describing sounded frighteningly like—

"Asperger's?"

The word fell from John's mouth before he could stop it, landing between him and the elder Holmes with a deadened thud. A dim memory was stirring in the far reaches of the doctor's brain—green hills and crisp Dartmoor air and a thoughtless joke shared at Sherlock's expense between Greg and himself—that was causing a sticky, vaguely sour taste to claw its way up his throat. "Are…are you telling me that Sherlock is autistic?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I suspected some form of high-functioning autism from the start," he explained. "Of course, in those days it wasn't something easily talked about or widely understood. Mother and Father were especially resistant to such…_upsetting _topics of conversation."

John snorted, a portion of his feelings of unease withering instantly into hot contempt. _"Right,"_ he sneered. "Nothing a few smacks with the cane and a stern talking-to can't solve, eh?" Mycroft shifted in his seat.

"Something like that," he answered curtly, but his air of stoicism was betrayed by the way his shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly as he spoke. _Embarrassment, _realized John, and for perhaps the first time since their initial meeting over a year and a half ago the doctor felt a pang of sympathy for the elder Holmes, for John knew as well as anyone what it was to endure a difficult family. Grudgingly, his anger began to siphon away. "Father was implacable on the matter until his death," Mycroft continued, sensing the shift in the atmosphere of the car. "Fortunately, Mother proved more…_receptive_. I still had to plead with her for months, but eventually she agreed to take Sherlock to a specialist here in London, where he was subjected to a battery of psychological tests."

John swallowed hard. "…And the results?"

"_Inconclusive_." The word rolled from Mycroft's tongue slowly, and he flashed John a bitter, knowing smile at the irony of it. "I doubt we'll ever know for sure now," he sighed, turning a bland eye out the tinted glass. "Of course, I believe the diagnosis had less to do with any true ambiguity than with Sherlock's own reticence; by that point he'd nearly stopped speaking altogether."

John frowned, caught off guard. _Sherlock, stopped speaking?_ "Why?" he asked. Mycroft didn't answer, just continued his stare out the window. But the muscles in his jaw clenched, and suddenly the doctor's confusion sharpened into alarm. "Mycroft," he said sternly, "tell me why—"

"Our mother disposed of his collection."

It wasn't the answer John had been expecting, but it was surprising all the same. "Yes," Mycroft continued soberly, able to read the doctor's stunned expression without looking up to see it. "She discarded it completely and without his knowledge one morning while he was away at school. I would have put a stop to it, but I was away at my first year at Cambridge, and by the time I'd learned of what had happened, it was too late. The damage had already been done." His eyes tracked up to meet John's. "Sherlock's reaction to the loss was…_extreme._"

"But...but _why?"_ John spluttered, hands clenching furiously at his sides._ "_Why would she have done something so awful? Surely your mum knew how much it meant to him! Why destroy it? Why would she do that to her own _son?!"_

But Mycroft only shook his head, and John knew he'd at last reached a locked door, a point beyond which Mycroft—for whatever covert reason—would explain no further. Groaning, the doctor ran a hand through his hair, twisting frustratedly in his seat and overcome with the sudden churlish desire to kick out at something that could feel pain.

"What I will tell you, John," Mycroft offered, "is that Sherlock spoke barely a word after that point for nearly a year. It baffled every doctor he was thrust upon and drove Mother nearly mad, but he was committed to his silence. In the beginning I tried my best to reason with him, but I soon came to respect what he was doing." A surprisingly soft look settled across the older man's face. "I suspect it took him all that time to reconstruct what he'd lost," he murmured. John's eyebrows shot up.

"Reconstruct? The collection, you mean?"

"Yes, except that this time Sherlock built it in a far safer place, deep within the sanctity his own mind." A coy smirk tugged at the corner of Mycroft's mouth. "I fear he's been adding to it ever since."

For a brief moment John couldn't for the life of him see what Mycroft was getting at. But then, in a flash, the pieces clicked into place. His eyes widened.

"His mind palace…" he whispered. "You-you're taking about his mind palace! Jesus Christ…"

"It's more than just a clever parlor trick, John," urged Mycroft, all at once severely serious, his sharp tone and steely eyes commanding the doctor's attention. "It's a coping strategy, and a vital one. _Sherlock's mind is what he is_, he will admit that freely, and I know for a fact he considers his brain his most prized and hard-earned possession. Things being as they are, any risk to the balance between his body and his mind simply cannot be tolerated." There was a pointed pause, and Mycroft drew in a breath. "Do you understand?" he asked.

Did he understand? John felt more as though he was drowning under the weight of Mycroft's words. He did his best to keep his face steady, but something of the multitude of emotions roiling within him must have shone through, for like the first rays of sunlight wedging their way between the clouds of a dissipating storm Mycroft's intense aura broke, and he leant forward slightly, touching a hand to the doctor's shoulder.

"This information is not meant to burden you unduly, John," he explained, his voice solemn but no longer harsh. "But I feel you must be privy to it, if only so that you may understand to the best of your ability the nature of Sherlock's condition. You must understand how very crucial it is that he maintains stability of his mental constructs. The consequences of his failure to do so, as you witnessed firsthand last night, can be swift and catastrophic." He sat back, regarding John closely. "And so I ask you again, John, as a man of the law and as a brother: _Do you understand?_"

Was that sentiment? It seemed obvious but entirely impossible. And yet John felt too shell-shocked to care either way—let Mycroft keep his mysteries, if he must. "I understand," he croaked. He was suddenly desperate for air, to be out of this stifling car. "Is that everything?" he asked.

"There _is_ one last thing, John," said Mycroft. "Before you go." It was all John could do to bite back a scream of desperation.

"Yes?"

"Tell me, do you recall our conversation from this past spring, following that unfortunate Coventry affair?" Mycroft's eyes were stony in the dim light of the car. "I brought you the file of a dead woman. Remember her?"

Oh. Oh, yes. Naked flesh and a posh white chair. Red lipstick. Nails like knives. _Could you put something on please? Something, anything at all? _

_A napkin?_

"Irene Adler," said John. Mycroft sighed.

"Indeed," he murmured. "Now, do you remember what it was we discussed that afternoon?"

John bit his lip. Of course he remembered (how could he forget?), but something in Mycroft's contemplative expression was making him leery, for again John felt that the elder Holmes was leading the conversation down a strange, untested path. "Whether or not to conceal Adler's death from Sherlock," he answered slowly. Mycroft nodded once, his eyes never leaving John.

"Yes," he said. "And why, doctor, did we discuss that particular issue?"

Now John's brain was really humming. "Because…because we didn't know if Sherlock would be hurt…we didn't know if Sherlock actually felt—" The doctor paused suddenly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What are you getting at, exactly, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's face remained impassive. "John," he began, "do you remember what I asked you about Sherlock that afternoon? What I _specifically _asked you?"

John closed his eyes, trying to think. Slowly, the memory rose to the surface. "You asked…you said he had the brain of a logician—"

"Of a philosopher."

"Right, of a _philosopher,_ or, or of a scientist, and then…and then…" John's eyes flew open. His breath locked in his chest, and he realized, too late, exactly where Mycroft was leading him, and that that somewhere was frighteningly personal, a private and complicated area and not even something Mycroft had any right to know about in the first place.

"John?"

"You asked what we could deduce about his heart," breathed the doctor, horrified to feel a definite flush working its way up his collar. Was it possible that Mycroft knew about the kiss, that Sherlock had remembered what he'd done? Would the detective have told his brother if he had? That sort of openness didn't seem like typical Sherlock behavior, but then again, snogging wasn't typical Sherlock behavior, either…

"And what did you say?" Mycroft's words ripped John back to attention.

"Huh?"

"What did you say, John, when I asked what we could deduce about Sherlock's heart?"

"I…said I didn't know."

Mycroft tilted his head carefully to the side, staring down at John along the narrow bridge of his nose. "Would you, perhaps, care to revise that statement now?" he asked. John balked. The flush had spread, was in his face now, his chest, his arms. His brain seemed on the verge of superheating.

"E-excuse me?"

Mycroft's entire body seemed to sharpen, folding in at the corners to form a precise point focused squarely at John. "Let me put it plainly, then," he murmured. "What can you, John Watson, deduce about the heart of Sherlock Holmes?"

And oh, that was it. He knew. He _knew_. Mycroft Holmes _knew. It didn't mean anything! _John wanted to scream. _You've gotten it all wrong! Sherlock was high! He didn't know what he was doing! _And yet Mycroft didn't relent, and slowly it dawned on John that if Mycroft Holmes, the man who ran a country from his office, the man who understood everything and everyone, was asking about a kiss that wasn't supposed to mean anything, then maybe, just maybe, it meant something after all.

But what? And to whom?

_What can you, John Watson, deduce about the heart of Sherlock Holmes?_

"I'm sure I don't know," he whispered. And it was the truth.

Mycroft's answering stare was trenchant. "Are you absolutely certain?" he asked.

"Yes."

Mycroft sighed. "Very well," he said, motioning to the door. "In that case, doctor, you may go."

John didn't need telling twice. He was out on the pavement in a heartbeat, and it took several seconds for him to connect the arched brow the chauffeur threw his way with the fact that he was sweating slightly, visibly flustered and panting in the wintry air as though he'd just run a mile. Fumbling with his keys, he was only faintly aware of the sound of the car revving to life and pulling away, leaving him alone. All John wanted now was to get inside, hole himself up in his room, and think. He needed a chance to clear his head; his whole self, body and mind, was simply _aching _for it.

The moment John opened the front door, however, the doctor knew at once that something was horribly, horribly wrong. That acrid smell was unmistakable, and could only mean one thing…

"No, no, no," he hissed, scooping the grocery and garment bags into his arms before tramping up the stairs as quickly as his legs could manage. Jesus, couldn't he catch a break? His heart was pounding in his chest by the time he reached the door, and he threw it open, his eyes falling instantly upon the detective draped supine upon the couch, showered and dressed and looking impeccable…

…and with a lit cigarette hanging nonchalantly from the corner of his mouth.

_"Sherlock!" _John cried. The bags slipped from his grasp to the floor, the can of beans sent rolling across the floorboards until it came to a stop at the foot of the side table. _"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!"_

Sherlock blinked open an eye, peering curiously at the doctor. "Trying to think, obviously," he muttered, sounding almost affronted that he should be forced to explain. "A task that would prove much easier if you could somehow refrain from clodding about the place like a total Neanderthal." He flicked an agitated glance to the dropped groceries and John's heavy boots before resuming his customary praying position, closing his eyes and craning his neck back to blow a leisurely stream of smoke from his nostrils.

But in an instant John was across the room and upon him, snatching the cigarette out from between the detective's unsuspecting lips. "Hey!" howled Sherlock, anger and annoyance twisting his face into a deep grimace, but John had already turned away, stalking to the kitchen with the smoking stub clenched in his fingers. "John…" growled Sherlock, leaping from the couch in pursuit. "John, stop this; don't be ridiculous. John! _John!"_

He rounded the kitchen doors just in time to watch the doctor snub the remains of his cigarette in the bottom of the sink. "John, why—"

"Why do you _think_, Sherlock?!" bellowed John, turning up to face the detective with his fists balled at his sides. He was almost too furious to speak. There were too many questions flying through his head, all jostling for attention and space, that were causing his capacity for calm, rational behavior to fizzle into a practical nonentity. "Why are you smoking?" he barked finally. "You told me you quit! You _promised _me!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, clearly I haven't," he answered simply. John grit his teeth.

"And just where did you get this?" He held up the cigarette butt. "I know for a fact you still have all the local vendors blackmailed into refusing to sell to you!" Sherlock sniffed, crossing his arms and glancing off to the side in a painfully obvious attempt to avoid the question. But John refused to let it go. "Answer me, Sherlock!"

"Mycroft gave them to me."

John blinked, not quite sure he'd heard correctly. _"…What?"_

The detective just rolled his eyes, digging his hand into his trousers pocket. When he pulled it out again John saw he was holding a newly opened pack of cigarettes, the cellophane still clinging to one end. "See?" he said. "Mycroft left them for me. Said they'd be better than—" His mouth snapped shut and he bit his lip, catching himself just in time. The kitchen fell to uncomfortable silence. "Well," he muttered finally, fluttering a hand. "They're from Mycroft. Satisfied?" He stuffed the box back into his pocket.

John closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply and count to ten. Maybe, he thought, this wasn't so bad. After all, a couple cartons of cigarettes were better than cocaine, right? Better than heroin and shooting up whenever John wasn't around. If that's what it took to kick the urge before it ramped up into a true relapse, that's what it took. Yes. Sherlock would wean himself from hard drugs to cigarettes, from cigarettes to patches, and then, hopefully, stop cold turkey. Then it would be over. Right? Wasn't that better? Wouldn't that work? Would Mycroft have given Sherlock the cigarettes if it wouldn't work?

But John wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything anymore; all he knew was that the blood pounding in his ears was deafening, and if Sherlock didn't get out of his sight as quickly as possible objects were liable to start flying into walls.

"Do—not—smoke—in—this—building—Sherlock," he seethed, his words clipped in an effort to keep his simmering anger under control. "I mean it. _Don't; _I'll not have this flat reeking of cigarettes. If you have to smoke, you do it outside." He pointed out the kitchen window.

Sherlock's eyes tracked the gesture. "…On the fire escape?" he asked, incredulous.

"Sherlock, I don't care if you do it naked atop the Gherkin! Just don't do it in here! Got it?"

The detective's eyes flashed. For a moment it seemed he would protest, but in the end all he did was stomp across the kitchen to the window, throwing it open and making sure to make as much noise as possible along every step of the way. John watched as he swung his long legs over the sill, noting that the bandages around the detective's hand had been removed for the shower and not replaced. He hoped Sherlock had at least re-wrapped his feet beneath his socks and shoes.

"Don't you want your coat?" the doctor grumbled, watching as Sherlock propelled himself out onto the steel landing. But Sherlock didn't respond, just turned about to throw the doctor a caustic glare before slamming the window shut in his face. John's temper boiled over.

"Fine then!" he screamed after him. "Do whatever the fuck you want! Freeze to death on the fire escape if it makes you happy! You've already nearly killed yourself once in the past 24 hours!" Consumed by rage, the doctor's hand reached for the nearest object—the mug still sitting by the kettle he'd left for Sherlock the night before—and closed around it. "Why bother listening to _me?!" _he roared. "_I _only saved your life! Why show _me _so much as a scrap of common courtesy?! Well_,_ FUCK YOU, SHERLOCK!_ FUCK YOU!" _And with that John sent the mug flying into the refrigerator, where it shattered on contact, littering the ground with ceramic bits. The detective, standing now with his back turned to the window as he knocked a new cigarette into his palm, didn't even flinch.

Back inside, John raked in lungfuls of air, watching through the glass as Sherlock calmly raised the fag to his lips, cupped a hand around the flame of his lighter and drew in a long, steady breath, held it for a moment, and then exhaled. "We are going to talk about this, Sherlock!" he shouted. "Don't for a moment think you're off the hook!" But his voice already sounded weak, for the energy of the outburst seemed to be draining from him as quickly as Sherlock's breath of smoke was dissipating into the cold afternoon air.

Stumbling backwards, John carded a shaking hand through his hair. Sit…he needed to sit down…

"We are going to talk about this…" he repeated. His voice wasn't much more than a whisper now, the words not so much a promise of intent as they were an anchor, something to grip on to and to have in a moment when he had so little control of anything else. The doctor hardly noticed as his body collapsed into the nearest chair. What he _did _notice was a conspicuously cleared space on the kitchen table: Sherlock's leather case, along with all its contents, had disappeared. Whether Mycroft had taken it or Sherlock had squirreled it away once more the doctor found impossible to tell.


End file.
